A Marriage of Convenience
by Sophia Quills
Summary: So the title is self-explanatory. The story is about our two favourite people falling in love.
1. Prologue

**-PROLOGUE-**

Margaret Hale watched the wall clock with growing impatience.

She was seated in the office of Mr Thornton, waiting to meet him. After showing her into the room, Williams, his overseer, had gone off in search of his master. That was fifteen minutes ago.

She had passed the time by gazing out of the large window overlooking the mill-yard. Below was a strange choreography of chaos and cotton. The air was filled with the roar and clanking of machines and everywhere men were pushing wagons that bore cotton in the raw form as well as the woven form in bales of calico. Their energetic, unceasing motion was a dizzying sight to behold.

Everything was so very different from what she was used to. Ever since her father had announced his decision to leave the church and move to Milton, she had felt as if a great weight had been suddenly thrown upon her shoulders. Every day had brought some urgent question that needed to be settled. Her father, overcome with grief and fatigue, had left the arrangement of the moving and packing to her.

Her father and she had arrived in Milton two days ago. She had read all that she could find about the city to prepare herself. Milton was England's first industrial city, the economic and trade center of the North and the hotbed of radical politics. But the reality of the place had grotesquely exceeded her imagination. Milton was a busy, crowded, smoky, loud, sprawling city. The people and scenes were so different that Helstone in comparison began to acquire an almost dream-like, mythical quality in her mind.

Her first two days were spent being jolted and jostled as she and her father searched for a house to rent. So far they had not met with any success. Thirty pounds was a year was all they could afford to give. In Hampshire, they could have found a spacious house with a pleasant garden for the money. But here, a house in a decent neighbourhood with simple and comfortable rooms seemed unattainable. To make matters urgent, the cost of their stay at the Clarendon hotel was more than her father had anticipated and it had become necessary that they find and finalise a house within the day.

This morning Margaret had insisted that their house-hunting would proceed faster if they go separately. Before setting out, she had marked out eight houses that were advertised in the Milton Times. By afternoon she had gone through seven houses, rejecting each one of them after visiting it. The house in Crampton was the last. To her immense relief, the rooms were just the right size and, if they converted one of the sitting rooms into a bedroom, the right number. Unfortunately, there wasn't much to be done about the horrid wallpaper or the heavy cornice.

She had been surveying the upper floors when she met Williams. Not only had she caught him speculating about the reason behind their removal to Milton but she had also found him unwilling to share the details of the house and rent with her.

 _What about other houses? Mr Thornton thinks this house will do well for them._

 _Can she speak with the landlord? Mr Thornton will speak with the man._

 _How much is the rent? Mr Thornton will discuss with her father. She need not concern herself with money matters._

She had instructed an astonished Williams to take her to meet Mr Thornton. If William won't deal with her, she would rather deal directly with his Mr Thornton.

And so here she was, in his office. But there was no sign of the man.

Turning away from the noise and movement of the yard below, she scanned the office, trying to glean what she could of its absent owner. A large, heavy desk, fitted with drawers, dominated the centre of the room. The surface was covered with letters of business, financial papers, files, business cards and writing equipment. A large table lamp sat on the right-hand side of the desk indicating that this was a man who worked late into the evening. The shelf on the far wall held ledgers and account books. Nothing out of the ordinary. The only article of interest was an architectural plan of the mill that was pinned down to a high table. On the margins, dimensions and notes were written in a bold but careful hand.

She studied the plan for a few minutes before moving away. She considered leaving. It wasn't merely that she had been made to wait for unacceptably long but she was losing precious time.

She looked at the clock a third time. Twenty minutes.

Margaret stood up and headed toward the door. However, before she reached it, the door swung open and a man strode in.

Margaret found herself facing a tall, broad-shouldered man with hair as black as the night and the most startling pair of blue eyes. He looked to be about thirty, with sharp, regal features and an aquiline nose. He was immaculately, if somewhat severely, dressed. The crisp white of his shirt contrasted sharply with the black cravat and the long legs of his dark trousers brushed the tops of his polished shoes. The fine wool of his dark coat stretched over his wide shoulders, hinting at the power beneath.

Their gazes were locked in a fascinated stare and much to her horror, she found that she couldn't tear her eyes from his.

"Miss Hale," he spoke, when it became clear that her words would not come.

His voice was deep and rich. She was acutely aware of the hot colour that washed her cheeks and she instinctively sought to regain control of the situation.

"I have been waiting here for some time," she stated. It was imperative to her that he understood that she was neither intimidated nor to be taken for granted.

"I wasn't expecting you—or anyone. I'm on my daily rounds at this hour."

She was momentarily taken aback. A London gentleman would have apologised but then a London gentleman would not have kept a lady waiting in the first place. She studied the man before her. He was clearly in the habits of authority. He would not allow her any kind of advantage over him because of an unintentional inconvenience.

"Your man left me with no choice but to intrude on your schedule," she said. She saw what might have been a flicker of admiration, but it was instantly gone. She continued, "I came to inquire about the house in Crampton."

"The one on Canute Street?" he asked.

"Yes."

He paused a moment. "Are you certain?"

"Your man said you believed the house to be suitable," she pointed out.

"That was before," he said. He paused just long enough to make the statement noticeable but not long enough for her to ponder it. "There are better houses that I can—"

"I thank you but that will not be necessary," Margaret interrupted.

He narrowed a perceptive gaze on her and as disconcerting as the gaze was, Margaret knew the exact moment when he realised that the house was the best they could afford. It was mortifying that this man should know about their reduced circumstances.

"How much is the rent?" she asked, eager to bypass her embarrassment.

"Thirty pounds a year," he replied carefully.

"Very well," she said briskly, masking her relief. "Will Mr . . ." she paused to consult the advertisement in the newspaper for the name of the landlord.

"Donkin," he supplied the name.

She lifted her head from the paper. "Would Mr Donkin be willing to make the necessary repairs and change the papers?" she asked.

"The papers?"

"Pink and blue roses with yellow leaves," she described the atrocity.

"I see," he said, a hint of amusement glinting in his eyes. "The decorations are often at the landlord's discretion I'm afraid."

"Well." She would simply have to hide the paper with some of her water colours. "Then I must insist on the repairs."

"Of course," he granted.

She looked at him blankly for a moment, before realising that there nothing further to discuss with him and all that remained was for her father to settle the matter with the landlord.

"Thank you for your trouble, Mr Thornton," she said as she made to move.

"It was no trouble," he said easily and held out his hand.

Her startled gaze moved from his outstretched hand to his face. She had heard about the rather modern customs of Northern societies but she had not expected that she would be required to adopt them so soon.

He seemed to realise that the gesture had caught her by surprise but he did not withdraw his hand. The subtle challenge propelled her into action. Taking a step forward and with a confidence she did not feel, she placed her hand in his.

His warm fingers closed around her hand.

"Miss Hale," he said, giving her hand a gentle shake.

Tugging her hand free, she managed a quick, "Mr Thornton," and stepped out of his office.

As she navigated her way through the workers and the carts, she turned around and looked up at the window. Their eyes met with startling directness. She swiftly turned away and walked out of the mill.

She consoled herself with the thought that it was unlikely that she would ever cross paths again with this man. They belonged in separate worlds. And even if they did meet again, she would have nothing to do with him, she vowed—little knowing that this one brief visit would alter her life forever.


	2. The Offer

**-THE OFFER-**

 **Three months later**

After a lengthy meeting with his bankers during which he convinced them to continue their investment, John Thornton stepped out of his mill and headed toward Crampton.

The day before, the striking workers had stormed the gates of Marlborough Mills and demanded that he send back the Irish labours. He had taken every precaution but he had not expected the sudden violence. It had been a bloody nightmare but the tactic had worked and the strike had been broken.

This morning the chastened workers had returned and his mill was back in operation.

His long strides ate up the ground, barely pausing to acknowledge the people who greeted him. His thoughts now, and were for some time now, solely focused on Margaret Hale.

 _Margaret_.

The first time he had meet her he had wanted to touch her. Not in any sexual way, although perhaps there was a bit of that. She was astonishingly beautiful. But it was the way she held herself, haughty and proud, as she stood in his office and coolly asked him about the rent. It had made him curious. And it wasn't every day that he found himself curious. It had made him want to provoke her and see if there was more beneath the bravado. It was most unlike him to want to do any such thing but there was something about her that he couldn't leave alone.

On the few occasions that they had met since that day, her manner had been reserved and cautious and when he had managed to draw her into a conversation, they had found themselves in complete opposition. He supposed that was to be expected. Raised in the old-fashioned South and polite London society, she had a surplus of idealism and naivety but she was also far more intelligent than most women in his acquaintance. A quality that she didn't bother to hide it, and one that he found admirable and refreshing.

But seeing her at the dinner party had been a revelation.

This time he had wanted to touch her. He had never been so attracted to a woman before. To his surprise, they had managed two civil sentences between them but it had all gone to rot the moment somebody brought up the ongoing strike and she had unfairly extended his argument to imply that he was in favour of letting poor babies starve. He truly couldn't help his anger in that moment. He had pointedly turned away from her and focused his attention on other guests but his gaze kept returning to Margaret.

He could not understand his fascination with her. Their differences were far too great to be ignored. She had made it clear that she did not care for the Northern ways or for entrepreneurs and that she saw him as the breathing embodiment of everything she believed wrong with the North. It should have annoyed him enough to never want anything to do with her, but when he thought about her standing in his office, clutching a copy of Milton Times or how she sparkled under the light of the chandelier or the way her brows would gather together as she prepared to argue with him, all he knew was he wanted her for himself.

John knew it was about time he married but he had considered the idea without much enthusiasm. That was until Margaret.

But he was also a ruthlessly pragmatic man. It wouldn't be easy to get Margaret to consider a courtship, let alone marriage. He would never pretend to be other than who he was to make himself agreeable to her. He had too much pride for that and she had too much intelligence to believe it. It would take patience and persistence to chip away at her prejudices but challenges hardly ever bothered him.

He had spent his adult life overcoming odds that would have overwhelmed a lesser man and on that night, John had suddenly and absolutely come to the decision that no matter what it took, Margaret was worth it.

But things were very different now than they had been a week ago. Her reckless actions had put her in an extremely vulnerable and precarious position. She would have to marry him now. Knowing what he did about her, he knew that she would reject his offer without a thought. She had already proved herself impetuous but if she did not marry him, she would be permanently ruined and he could not let that happen.

The obvious and the proper thing would have been to speak with Mr Hale. Her father would do everything in his power to persuade Margaret to accept him. But there was always a chance that Mr Hale would not succeed, and John couldn't take that chance. He had decided to speak with Margaret himself.

Yesterday, after the other mill masters and the police superintendent had left and the Irish workers had been taken care of, he had retired to his study and stayed there the entire night. He had gone over the budget sheets and later sketched out a temporary structure for housing the Irish workers and all the while his mind had planned what he was going to say to Margaret.

She would be extremely unhappy about being forced to marry him, and he didn't blame her, but once she was his wife, there would be plenty of time to change her mind.

* * *

"Mr Thornton is in the drawing room," Mary announced.

Margaret looked up from the book that she had been trying to read.

"Did you tell him that father is not home?" she asked.

"He asked for you, miss."

"Thank you. I will come." Placing the book on the table, she slowly rose from her seat, hoping that he had only come to enquire after her. But even as she hoped she knew it was in vain.

Of course, he had come. How could he not after the display she had made yesterday?

What had she been thinking? Sending him out to reason with a mob. She had realised her mistake almost immediately when she saw Boucher pick up stones. She couldn't stand by the window and do nothing.

But to throw herself at him like that! What possessed her to think that a man twice her size needed her to protect him? Did she even do any good? The mob would have dispersed the moment they heard the soldiers.

The scene had been so chaotic, she remembered things only in snatches—the blinding sheet of light before her eyes, strong arms picking her up from the cold floor, the embarrassing whispers. By the time she had fully regained consciousness, Dr Lowe had been peering into her face. Disoriented and mortified, she had been desperate for the refuge of her home.

Since then, she had had plenty of time to reflect upon her shocking behaviour. She wondered what it was about the man that made her act so contrary to her nature.

Margaret liked to think herself even-tempered. She was perfectly able to control her emotions but something about his absolute confidence and cool intelligence, as though he alone was right about everything, made her want to battle with him and prove him wrong and even though she carried a nagging suspicion that he secretly enjoyed their arguments, she simply could not stop herself.

And now she had gone ahead and thrown her arms around him for the whole world to see. No wonder the servants thought she was in love with him.

Yesterday, her father had returned home from the school and as was his habit, had occupied himself with reading all evening. At dinner, he had talked about the riot at Marlborough Mills and considered paying a call on Mr Thornton a couple of days hence after the business had returned to normal. He seemed to have absolutely no idea that she had been present during the riot and grateful for small mercies, Margaret did not tell him about it. It had also given her reason to hope that perhaps amid all the confusion of the riot, nobody would remember her part in it. She wanted nothing more than to put the entire embarrassing episode behind her.

But now Mr Thornton was here and wanted to speak with her.

Margaret pushed against the door and entered. He was standing at the window, hands clasped behind his back, his tall form blocking off the light. Sensing her presence, he turned around.

He walked to the door and closed it and then came back and stood opposite her.

"Are you recovered?" he enquired.

She took a discreet, steadying breath and lifted her head.

"Yes, I am well."

His eyes were fixed on her temple. She doubted if he could see the wound, she had carefully covered it with her hair.

"I never got the opportunity to thank you for what you did yesterday."

"You don't need to thank me," she replied quickly.

"I think I do."

"I only did the least anyone would have," she persisted. "I was, after all, responsible for putting you in danger. I would have done the same for any man there."

"I do not doubt that," he said neutrally.

An awkward silence followed as she processed his comment.

"Miss Hale, I think you know why I am here," he finally spoke.

Flushing scarlet, she responded with an unsteady nod.

"We were seen by the workers," he informed her, "most of them know who you are. We were also seen by the household—"

"I am sure it is not so serious," she interrupted. "Servants talk all the time."

"I don't think you understand the gravity of the situation," he said. "The story is tearing through Milton as we speak. It is only a matter of hours before Mr Hale hears about it."

The colour drained from her face. She felt faint with fear and nausea. Her shock must have been evident because his eyes softened.

"I am sorry," he said.

"But I was only trying to shield you!" she cried.

"I understand that your actions were innocent and honourable, that you only sought to protect me, but that is not how it is being perceived."

Margaret felt her face burn with humiliation. Turning away, she hurried to the window, wrapping her arms around her waist to steady herself. This could not be. Her name being talked about the town!

He remained silent, respecting her distress, but when she did not speak for a long time, he said, "We need to act with expediency. What is done cannot be undone but it can be mitigated."

She barely heard him, her mind could not focus on anything other than the fact that her name was connected to a scandal. With _him_. Somehow that seemed to be the worst of it. And now he was bound to offer for her, to save her from social disgrace. He would have this power over her and everything in her instinctively rebelled against the thought.

She clenched her fists against her ribcage, trying to control her anger.

"You must consider your reputation," he urged.

"Stop!" She whirled to face him. "Stop speaking as if it were your duty to rescue my reputation!"

"It is actually," he replied with remarkable composure.

For a moment, she was speechless. But his calm manner served only to fan her resentment and anger. "I am sure you think so. It would all work out to your advantage, wouldn't it?" she spat.

Unable to stop now that she had started, she continued savagely, "You broke the strike with your Irish workers and your soldiers. You used those desperate men against themselves. And now you think because I acted publicly to defend you, because my father is in reduced circumstances, you can have me for your possession? I suppose I should expect no less from someone in trade!"

She braced herself for his angry refutation, but none came.

When he finally spoke, his words were woven with patience and sympathy, as if he expected and understood her need to lash out at him and the situation. "I do not wish to possess you but I can protect you if you marry me," he said, his gaze never straying from her.

"No," she said, shaking her head stubbornly, refusing to yield to this humiliation.

"I know this is not what you want, but you must think about your future. Your father cannot protect you from this."

"No!" she cried out again in anger and in frustration. She did not want to hear this. She did not want to hear reason. She wanted to scream at the injustice of it all.

"You must let me do the right thing else it will reflect very badly on everyone. Your father, in particular."

Her attention was caught by that. "What?"

"It would appear as if Mr Hale was unable to prevail upon me and protect your honour as he ought."

As the bitter truth of his statement sunk in, she squeezed her eyes closed and turned away.

He was doing the right thing, the honourable thing, but she hated him for it, for being so reasonable. And she hated the world for judging her so unfairly, for demanding that she marry him so that some twisted notion of morality can be satisfied. But most of all, she hated herself for bringing this upon herself, for being so foolish.

She looked up to the ceiling in a bid to hold the tears that threatened to fall. He slowly approached her and reaching into his coat pocket, drew out a folded square of linen and silently offered it to her. She looked at the handkerchief, struggling for a moment to accept even this small assistance, before taking it.

He was watching her closely, alert to every nuance of her expression. She could not let herself fall apart like this, she thought, clutching the handkerchief. She felt certain that he could read her every thought. But she wondered what he was thinking.

"Why do you care?" she asked. It was inconceivable that he was trying to reason with her even after all the unforgivable things she had said to him.

He took a moment to answer. "The world is unkind to women who have no one to defend them. Men are forgiven but women have to bear the burden and the shame. I cannot let you suffer unjustly for something that was not your fault."

Even through her distress, she had the distinct impression that for a brief moment he hadn't just been speaking about her situation. He had been remembering someone else.

Focusing his attention back on her, he said, "Whatever it is you fear, it cannot be worse than spending your life as a pariah."

In the ensuing silence, the fight slowly left her. Her tense shoulders slumped in acceptance of the situation. Her world had been turned upside down. She was on the brink of social disaster. But something in his manner soothed her. Before today, if someone had told her that she would find comfort in his presence, she would have scoffed at the notion.

But she was baffled by his persistence. She may not have a choice but he did. Nobody would blame him for not wanting to marry a woman who had insulted him not two days ago under his own roof and in the presence of his guests.

"You cannot want this," she said.

There was a new alertness in his eyes. "What makes you think so?"

She went blank with astonishment and then, a sudden thought struck her. "You have thought about all this—how I would respond, what you would say?"

He looked as if she had surprised him.

He seemed to deliberate his answer. "Yes," he finally admitted. "I never try to do anything without considering it thoroughly. And I would like you to carefully consider the choices before you."

Recognising that nothing was to be gained in delaying, Margaret forced herself to think about the options before her and shakily realised that she had none. No protestation of innocence would save her from ruin. She could not return to London or Helstone. She would have to stay in Milton and be an outcast. She would not be welcome in polite society. No respectable man would marry her. And the shame wouldn't be hers alone. Her blameless father too would have to live with the scorn and the disgrace.

The only way out of it was to marry him. He was a stranger, the last man she thought she would marry, although the point was now moot.

Her fate had been sealed the moment she threw her arms around him. She could either refuse him and be forced by her father to reconsider, her pride and dignity tattered in the process or she could accept him and take responsibility for her actions and salvage what remained of her honour.

It occurred to her that the Hales had a definite propensity for scandal—first Fred and his mutiny, then father and his dissent, and now her. She would have laughed if it weren't her family.

She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath before looking straight at him. He was watching her alertly.

"Yes."

"Yes," she said again. "I will marry you."


	3. The Families

**-THE FAMILIES-**

"Why didn't you tell me yesterday?" Mr Hale demanded of his daughter.

"I am sorry," she said, her eyes stinging with tears at the rebuke.

"I hardly knew what to say when John told me about it."

Margaret had never seen her father so upset. He had returned home early and had summoned her to his study. She had been dreading this conversation ever since John had left the house to inform her father about the betrothal. She should have told him the truth yesterday.

"I am sorry," Margaret said again miserably.

Shaking his head, her father sat down in his armchair and brought his right hand to his forehead. She stood silently as she watched him rub his temples. A sudden, irrational hope flared in her heart. Perhaps her father was thinking of a way to help her. Perhaps—

Margaret knelt next to him. "Papa," she said, "do you think I could go to Lon—"

"Thank God," he said in a fervent whisper, not seeming to hear her. "Thank God, it is taken care of."

Margaret stilled at the words, at the sting of betrayal caused by them.

Her father removed his hand and looked at her. "The wedding will take place with all haste."

Stunned, she slowly bowed her head, not wanting to look at him. She felt as if she were being abandoned to her fate. She had known that he would insist that she marry but some part of her had foolishly held out the hope that her father would try to talk her out of this decision. Even if it were in vain, she had needed him to share her outrage, she had needed his understanding. Instead, he was allowing her to do this, was _relieved_ that she was doing this.

She swallowed uncomfortably, hating the lump in her throat.

"An announcement will be put in the newspaper tomorrow," Mr Hale informed her. "We agreed the marriage should place next Saturday. John will purchase the license."

Margaret remained silent.

"Margaret?" her father called, finally noticing her stillness.

At his urging, she lifted her face to him. Whatever he saw in her expression caused his eyes to soften.

"My dear," he said gently, "surely you know that there is no other choice. We would be ruined."

"I understand."

"He is a good, kind man," he tried to reassure her.

"It does not signify."

"It does," Mr Hale insisted. "He is a very good match. An honourable man. I told him you have a small dowry, but he absolutely refused to take it. I had to insist on sharing the wedding expense."

"It's all right, Father," she assured him and tried to rise.

"Margaret!" He grabbed her hand to halt her. "I am sorry I was upset," he said helplessly. "You know I would never—"

"I know," she said, stopping his apology. Her father was a kind, benign man and his manner today had been an exception. "It has been a difficult day."

Mr Hale nodded, looking frail and weary. "I could not bear the thought of another . . ." he trailed off brokenly.

She tried to say something consoling but did not know what. She laid a comforting hand over his, briefly wondering how she had gone from needed comfort to offering comfort.

"Everything will be alright," she said, forcing a smile.

He nodded. "Yes."

Margaret rose from the floor. "I must write to my aunt and Edith. Imagine their surprise," she said, softening the truth with a deliberate wry laugh.

Mr Hale looked up at her, his fingers still clutching her hand, reluctant to let go but knowing that he had failed her somehow. Leaning down, she kissed his cheek and hurried to the privacy of her room.

Margaret found that she was glad that this was over. That any foolish hope of escape was over. She would have to marry him now. She had known it, of course, had agreed to it herself, but now it had all the force of finality.

How could one's life be so completely altered, she wondered.

Margaret knew she would have to marry but she'd never thought that she would marry so soon, much less under such circumstances. When she had told Henry that she was not ready for marriage, she had meant it. She had turned nineteen this spring and she wanted to see and experience more of life before she settled into domesticity. She prized her independence and despite the initial misgivings, was learning to enjoy her life in Milton. And now she would have to give all that up to become the wife of a man she barely knew.

She knew her father had meant well, but his words had failed to reassure her.

John Thornton did not strike her as an easy person. Though he was always unfailingly polite and well-mannered, underneath the facade, she suspected, was a man of quiet but ruthless ambition and an explosive temper that was well-concealed.

What kind of life would she have as the wife of such a man? He was likely to expect obedience from her and even though he had been remarkably patient with her today, she doubted if he would be as understanding and tolerant once they were wed. He would demand everything from her and the thought of being so completely owned by him was appalling.

But it was pointless to lament now. In twelve days, she would be his wife.

* * *

John sat at his desk, folding and sealing the last of the correspondence. Setting the letter aside, he picked up the long-forgotten glass of brandy and leaned back in his chair.

He absently regarded the ledgers strewn on his desk, all reminders of the mountain of tasks that still lay ahead of him in the wake of the strike. He had managers to take care of the account books but he felt closer to the pulse of the business when he went over the numbers himself. He had learned at an early age that numbers never lied and as Marlborough Mill was the largest cotton mill in Milton, the figures in his book were a fair indicator of the way business would unfold.

But right now, he was not occupied with numbers.

Taking a sip of his brandy, he experienced a quiet satisfaction—an emotion he rarely allowed himself to feel—as he thought about his conversation with Margaret.

He knew he had gently but surely pushed her into making the decision but there had been no other way. If she'd had more time to think about it, she would have come up with some way to avoid the marriage. She was stubborn enough to do that. So he did not regret the practical, even calculated, way with which he had approached the proposal.

But he had also learned a great deal about her today. Closing his eyes, he saw her as she had looked today. She had been dressed in light-coloured muslin, a pretty thing that made her look impossibly young. But despite the delicate exterior, she had shown surprising reserves of strength. She would not be cowed or easily fall to pieces. The father, however, was another matter. He had been surprised that Mr Hale had not even known that Margaret had been injured. How could the father fail to notice such a thing, he reflected moodily.

Setting the glass down, John walked to the window and gazed outside. He wondered what it would be like living with Margaret, coming home to her every day.

He knew it would not be a smooth path ahead of them. She had made it clear that she deeply resented being forced into marriage. She would not be a docile bride. She would argue with him and thwart him at every turn. But as long as it was Margaret, he found that he didn't mind.

He turned around when he heard a knock on the door.

"Come in."

The door opened to reveal Fanny. She stood uncertainly at the door, one hand placed on the curve of her belly, her normally clear brows creased with worry.

"Did you speak with Miss Hale?" she asked.

John immediately went to the door. "Yes. She has accepted my hand. The wedding will be two weeks hence, on Saturday."

"John!" she squealed with joy and as soon as he reached her, threw her arms around him and gave him a tight hug.

"Careful." John gently eased her away and guided her to a comfortable chair.

"I can't tell you how happy I am," she said with a contented sigh as she rested her feet on the ottoman he placed in front of her. "I will invite Miss Hale to tea. Two weeks is not nearly enough time to plan a wedding."

"Give her a few days before you descend upon her."

"Oh," Fanny paused and then, "Oh, I see. Of course. Was she very upset?"

Upset was one way of putting it, John thought as he went over to the fireplace to stir the logs.

"I hadn't realised the staff would gossip, else I would have told them to keep quiet," he heard Fanny say.

"It is not your fault."

"But I should have said something. Everything happened so suddenly, we were worried about getting a doctor for her and then she insisted on leaving—"

"You did the right thing," he assured her firmly. "But Watson is not going to be pleased when he finds out that you were here during the riot." He frowned. Watson was away on a trip and had sent her to stay with John, knowing that he would take care of her and keep her safe.

"Oh, please," she said with a wave of her hand. "I was in no danger."

"When does he return?"

"Are you trying to be rid of me?"

"I thought I got rid of you when you married," he returned.

Which they both knew was not true. Fanny was the only family he had left after their mother had passed away seven years ago and even though she was happily married, she was very much his responsibility.

He looked at his sister as she sat with her hand resting gently on the swell of her stomach. She looked extraordinarily lovely, her face glowing with contentment. Marriage and motherhood suited her.

John had never told her but he had been shocked when she had informed him that she wanted to marry Watson. He did not have any specific objections to Watson—Watson was the Mayor and a distinguished and well-respected man and more importantly, a close friend—but those qualities did not necessarily make him a good match for his sister. He had always imagined Fanny settling with someone close to her in age and Watson was more than fifteen years her senior. But Fanny had overridden his objections by telling him that she _loved_ Watson. John had given his reluctant agreement and after two years of silently observing their marriage, John knew that there was deep and enduring love between them. And now, with Fanny finally with child, their happiness could not be more complete.

"John?"

Fanny broke into his reverie.

"Does Margaret . . . ?" she hesitated.

"No. She was trying to protect me. It was a foolish thing to do."

"Am I selfish for saying that I am glad she did?" she asked. "Because I think she is perfect for you."

That caught him by surprise. He wanted Margaret but he had not fancied that she would be perfect for him. "There is no need to romanticise."

"I am not romanticising," she insisted. "I know you will suit tremendously."

"Is that why you were throwing Ann Latimer in my path?"

Her lips twisted slightly. "If I had met Margaret earlier, I assure you I would have thrown her in your path instead. And I do not think you would have minded," she added.

He narrowed his eyes at her impertinence.

But she continued unperturbed, "You scarcely took your eyes off her during the dinner."

"I do not recall you speaking so freely before."

She went on as if he hadn't spoken. "Even after she challenged you. Quite magnificently, I might add. And it is about time somebody did. You are so very certain and so serious all the time and everybody takes you so seriously. And all the girls are intimidated by you, though God knows why. You work too much. You keep a schedule that would kill an ordinary man. You never eat on time. And I'm certain you sleep in this blasted room."

The accurate observation caused John to smile.

But she was not done. "You need to stop working so hard. You need time for enjoyment. You need a wife. And Margaret is just the right girl. She is not intimidated by you so she will manage you quite nicely. She may even be a softening influence on you."

He waited until he was certain that she was finished with her speech and then asked, "Are you hungry?"

She blinked at the abrupt change in conversation.

"Watson told me you are always hungry these days," he said with a fond smile at her befuddled expression.

"That was a very good attempt to distract me, but yes, I am hungry." Fanny gave up now that she had made her point. She relaxed against the upholstered seat with a satisfied smile.

John pulled the bell and instructed the maid to bring in a tray. A heaping plate was delivered with surprising swiftness.

Fanny moved her feet to make room for him on the ottoman. He sat down and held the plate for her.

"I wish we had more time to plan the wedding but I am sure I will have everything ready in two weeks," she said, picking up a sandwich.

"No, you will not," he said. "You will exhaust yourself. And I don't believe Margaret cares for a grand wedding."

"Even a simple wedding needs to be planned," she said, "and I want to plan this wedding. I have nothing to do all day. I am going mad with inactivity. I will soon be entering confinement and it is going to be worse. Please, John, don't say no."

He relented with exasperation. "You can help with the planning, but only planning. You will not oversee anything. Is that understood?"

She made a face but seemed to understand that it was the only concession he was prepared to make.

"Alright, fine," she agreed and bit into her sandwich.

* * *

Three days later, Margaret found herself seated in the spacious and comfortable parlour in the Watson's townhouse.

Margaret had been introduced to Fanny at the dinner party and had been immediately struck by the difference in temperament between the brother and the sister. Fanny radiated a warm friendliness that instantly put one at ease. She had been a gracious hostess and quite attentive to her and her father, introducing them to the other guests and making sure that they were not neglected.

Glancing around the room, Margaret thought that it suited Fanny. The parlour was done in blue damask and the floor was covered with thick carpeting, creating a cosy and quiet space removed from the bustle of the city outside.

Hearing the rustle of silk skirts, Margaret looked toward the door and rose when Fanny appeared.

"Miss Hale!" Fanny rushed into the room, hands outstretched. "I am so delighted you could come," she said with a warm smile, taking Margaret's hand in a welcoming clasp.

"Mrs Watson. I hope you are doing well."

"Oh, please call me Fanny," she smiled widely. "And may I call you Margaret?"

"Yes, of course," Margaret said promptly.

"My husband will come shortly, but he might have to leave soon after. I have already sent for tea and refreshments," Fanny said, as she settled herself on the settee, next to Margaret.

"I must say I have been terribly impatient for this meeting," Fanny said. "We did not have the opportunity to get to know each other properly. But I am certain we will make up for lost time." Fanny continued breezily, "I asked John if he could come by for a visit and he said he would try."

Margaret's amusement faded instantly. She did not want to meet him. It felt too soon. Even though she had read the announcement in the paper, it was hard to believe that they were engaged, especially when none of the usual events and emotions was associated with the fact.

"You are going to have to get to know him eventually," Fanny said kindly.

It was disconcerting to be read so easily but Fanny was regarding her with understanding.

Margaret nodded and Fanny tactfully moved on to other subjects.

"Who will be attending from your family?" she enquired.

"My aunt is travelling in Italy but my cousin, Edith, is in London. I hope she can attend. She has a young baby and it may be difficult for her to take a train journey."

"How old is the baby?" Fanny asked with immediate interest.

"Six months."

There was a movement at the door and when Margaret turned round, she saw a man walk in. His gaze took in the two women before settling on Fanny with a smile. When he reached Fanny, he bent to kiss her on the cheek, his hand gently squeezing her shoulder.

He straightened and he held out his hand to Margaret with a welcoming smile. "I am very pleased to meet you."

"Mr Watson," Margaret greeted. He was middle-aged with silver streaks in his hair. He had a handsome and kind face and an engaging manner. She liked him instantly.

He took the chair next to his wife. "Milton must have been quite a change from Hampshire," he remarked. "How did you find it?"

"It took me a while to get used to it," Margaret admitted. "The factories, the warehouses. It is so large that I still lose my way," she smiled. "But I found much to admire—its energy, its modernity."

Mr Watson nodded approvingly. "Not everyone has an appreciation for its qualities. I'm glad you see past the smoke and the noise."

"George, I think you will want to talk to Margaret about the workers. Did I tell you, she has made friends with the union leader, Higgins," Fanny told her husband.

"Remarkable." He looked impressed.

Margaret gave a cautious smile. She was surprised that Fanny would bring it up given that it had been an open point of conflict between her and Mr Thornton.

"You must tell me about it," he said. "It would be a refreshing change to hear the worker's side. Although I must warn you, John will put the master's side quite persuasively."

"Oh, Margaret already knows that," Fanny told him. "And she is quite persuasive herself. We are sure to have many entertaining dinner conversations." She exchanged a smile with her husband.

"I will look forward to them." Watson consulted his pocket-watch. "I am afraid if I stay any longer, I will be late for my meeting," he told Fanny.

He rose from his chair and kissed her affectionately. "When I return, perhaps we can take a walk if you are not too tired."

Fanny smiled with pleasure. "I would love that."

After Mr Watson left, the talk turned to wedding preparation. Margaret remembered the long-ago conversation with Henry where she had described the kind of wedding she preferred—waking up on a fine summer morning, taking a short walk to the church through the shade of trees with no bridesmaids and no wedding breakfast. Hearing Fanny describe the flower arrangements, the decoration and the menu, Margaret realised that the wedding would be quite different from her idyllic vision. But it wasn't the wedding that troubled her.

Margaret was in the grip of a sudden gloom after watching Mr Watson and Fanny together. It was clear that they were devoted to each other. The shared smiles, the easy intimacy and the evident concern for each other spoke of a deep attachment. How wonderful to love and be loved like that. She felt a strange sorrow knowing that she would never experience such love.

"Margaret?"

She looked up in surprise, unaware that she had been off in her own thoughts.

"I am sorry," she said automatically. "I was wool-gathering."

"Is something wrong?"

"I . . ." she began and then stopped, unsure what she wanted to say or if she wanted to say anything at all. She felt irritated with herself for allowing unnecessary thoughts to cloud her mind.

"Please ignore me. This is all too sudden and unexpected, that is all."

Fanny was regarding her with sympathy. "You must think me so silly, chattering on about the wedding but . . . may I say something please?"

Margaret nodded warily.

"I realise it must be very difficult for you, feeling like you have no choice in the most important decision of your life but you _do_ have a choice," she said carefully. "You cannot change what happened but you can choose what you make of it. This marriage can be a new beginning, if you want it to be."

Margaret did not respond immediately. She couldn't argue with what Fanny was saying but such sentiments were easier to believe than practice. Things were happening so quickly and so irrevocably for her to regard the future with anything other than dread. As for a new beginning, Margaret did not know if she could answer the question with any honesty, especially now when all her feelings and fears were still too raw.

Still, she was surprised and touched by the understanding and advice Fanny offered.

"I will remember that," she promised.

Fanny slid her hand over hers and pressed warmly. A maid entered the room, carrying an elaborate tea service.

"Perfect timing!" Fanny said brightly.

"Shall I pour?" Margaret asked.

"Please," Fanny allowed and gratefully sank back against the cushions.

"What a pretty bracelet," she remarked when Margaret handed her her cup.

Margaret looked at the ornament on her wrist. "It was my mother's."

"Your mother . . . ?"

"She passed away when I was a young girl," she said and then because she couldn't well stop at that, she told the rest—being sent to London to live with her aunt, growing up with Edith and then returning to Helstone after Edith's marriage.

"My mother passed away when I was thirteen," Fanny said when it was her turn. "It was very sudden. We did not expect it. After her death, it was just me and John and he was so busy. So he found me a perfect school in Cheltenham called Swinbourne. You must have heard of it."

Margaret nodded. Swinbourne was a well-known boarding school for girls with a sterling reputation. Margaret was somewhat surprised that Mr Thornton did not consider a governess for Fanny but she imagined it would have been difficult for a single man to raise a young sister even with the help of a governess.

"I was there for four years," Fanny said. "It was a great place, we had excellent teachers. It was a bit rigorous, but John thought it all the better for it. He would bring me home for Christmas and visit as often as he could. We all looked forward to his visits." At Margaret's quizzical glance, Fanny clarified with a meaningful grin, "All the girls."

"Not all, surely," Margaret said reflexively.

"John is not as forbidding as he seems," Fanny said with a smile. "He's rather sweet once you get to know him."

Margaret had started to lift her cup, but she put it back in the saucer.

Grinning, Fanny continued, "Of course, I'm partial but you must trust me. He can be quite diverting when he chooses to be."

It was Margaret's opinion that "sweet" or "diverting" were not the words one would apply to the man that she had agreed to marry, but there seemed little point in saying it to Fanny. Besides, the man himself had arrived.

Fanny glanced toward the door and exclaimed, "John, you could make it after all!"

Margaret did not turn around but she heard him walk into the room and a moment later, he reached the sitting area.

"Miss Hale," he greeted her in his deep voice.

Margaret looked up and met his gaze. "Mr Thornton."

"I did not know you had a guest," he said to his sister as he took a seat opposite Margaret.

"Margaret is not a guest. She is family," Fanny corrected. "Would you like some tea?"

At his nod, Margaret slid forward to make him a cup. After pouring the hot brew and removing the sieve from the cup, she lifted her gaze to him in question, her hand poised over the cream pot.

"No cream," he replied.

Her hand moved and hovered over the sugar tongs and again she lifted her gaze to him.

"No sugar."

Out of the corner of her eyes, she could see Fanny watching this spontaneous but silent choreography avidly.

As she handed him the cup, his finger brushed against hers. Margaret swiftly withdrew her hand and picked up her tea, curling her finger tightly around the handle.

Murmuring that she needed to fetch something, Fanny rose from the settee and went to the writing bureau in the far corner of the room.

"Has the wound not healed?" she heard him ask.

She raised her head and saw his eyes linger briefly where she still covered the gash with her hair before resting on her face again. There was something new in his gaze, she noticed. It was at once concerned and caressing, and her nerves jangled uneasily at the realisation.

"It will in a day or two," she said.

"It should have healed by now," he said and then decided, "I will ask Dr Donaldson to examine it."

"There is no need," she said. "Dr Lowe said it will heal soon."

"Did Lowe examine it since that day?"

She gave him a stony look.

"I will send Dr Donaldson tomorrow."

She opened her mouth to argue but bit back her words. The last thing she wanted to do was draw Fanny's attention. They sat in charged silence until it was broken by the sound of Fanny rummaging through the drawers. Eager for any kind of distraction, Margaret turned around in her seat.

"Do you require any assistance?" she asked.

"No, no. It is here somewhere," she said, opening another drawer. "Ah, found it," she called and returned with folded sheets of paper.

"Please give this to Grimsby." She handed the sheets to John and then, looked at Margaret to explain, "Grimsby is the butler at Marlborough." Turning to her brother, she added, "I have all the instructions written there."

John leafed through the closely written sheets and looked like he wanted to question, but then decided against it and put the missive in his pocket.

"It isn't easy for him to let me plan the wedding," Fanny said, sitting down. "You see," she spoke in a whisper loud enough for him to hear, "John has this infuriating need to control everything within his reach."

Margaret could only agree.

Casting a quick glance at the timepiece, Margaret set aside her cup.

"It is getting late, I must be going," she said, picking up her gloves. "Thank you for the lovely tea. I had a wonderful time." She smiled warmly at Fanny.

"How did you arrive?" John asked.

"I walked."

"I will escort you."

Margaret clenched her jaw and then slowly unclenched it when she saw Fanny smiling at them with expectation.

"Shall we?" he asked.

* * *

 **A/N** : I wonder whether you are shocked, amused or sputtering.

A weak Mr Hale (this is much closer to the book), a pregnant and happily married Fanny, and no Hannah Thornton! I needed to make these changes to the supporting characters and backstory because then I can shade John and Margaret a little differently and have them behave in new and interesting and hopefully believable ways.

 _Please_ tell me how you feel about this very non-canon chapter. I am eager to read your reaction and frankly, a bit nervous.

Much love,

SQ


	4. The Betrothal

**-THE BETROTHAL-**

Margaret stood in the entrance hall while John rang for a housemaid.

When the maid brought her outer garment and hat, he took them from the girl. He held them for Margaret and stood aside as she pulled on her coat.

Margaret was still seething from his high-handed treatment and the implication that she was some brainless female who could not distinguish between a serious injury and a superficial graze. It didn't help that he was staring at her in a proprietorial way. No doubt he thought that he would be making decisions for her from now on.

"Mr Thornton," she began, "it is best if certain things are clarified right away."

He appeared to listen with all attention.

"I will not be commanded against my will," she said.

"Even if it is for your own good?"

"I am perfectly capable of deciding what is good for me."

"Of course," he said, his voice scrupulously polite.

She stopped and gave him a sharp look. Of course, she thought bitterly, if she knew what was good for her she would have waited with Fanny as he had asked her to do instead of rushing out to reason with the mob. And of course, none of this would be happening.

Her anger was hardly mitigated by the fact that he was right.

"I am not a child," she said, turning around to face the mirror to secure her hat.

"I am aware of that."

She caught his gaze in the looking glass. She had never felt so extraordinarily uncomfortable before. To cover her unease, she made a project of efficiently pulling on her gloves and fastening the little buttons at her wrist.

They stepped outside. Dusk was fast approaching and the air had grown a bit chilly. They walked in silence for a few minutes. She noticed that he walked with an easy masculine grace and that he had shortened his strides to match hers.

"I trust your visit with Fanny went well," he asked conversationally.

"Yes."

"She can get very carried away," he cautioned. "You do not have to agree to all of her suggestions."

"Only yours," she retorted, unable to stop herself.

She wondered why her emotions defied all reason when it came to him. She knew that it was not wise to provoke him. It had been different when he had been an acquaintance but as her future husband, she ought to regard him with some amount of respect. Almost all of her happiness depended on how he treated her but right now, she felt stupidly reckless.

"I do not require obedience from my wife," he said.

When she didn't say anything, he turned his head to looked at her. "You do not believe me," he said with gentle accusation.

No, she did not believe him. He was a man who demanded obedience from everyone in his sphere. It was the first thing she had known about him. Why should his wife be exempt?

"You require it from everyone else," she pointed out.

"True," he agreed. "But not from you. Although I hope you will consider my advice in the spirit that it is given. But it is not the same as requiring obedience, is it?"

Margaret wasn't sure how to reply. He seemed to be trying to get her to trust him but it was not easy for her to suddenly accept whatever he was saying.

"And what about your workers," she asked after a moment.

Her deliberate evasion brought a wry smile to his lips but he went along. "What about them?"

"I have heard the workers speak as though the masters would like them to be ignorant and childlike with a blind unreasoning kind of obedience."

"Is that what Higgins has been telling you?"

"So you deny it?"

"No," he said readily. "I maintain that despotism is the best kind of government for the workers. In the hours they work for me, I am an autocrat. I demand their full compliance during work hours but what they do after it is no concern of mine."

"And what about how they spend their money?"

"That would be none of my business."

"But what about your moral duty?" she insisted. "Surely you can see that they would appreciate if you took an interest."

"Would they?"

"Perhaps not . . . _appreciate_ ," she said, "but it will certainly go a long way in assuaging their fears."

"What do you suggest?"

She paused, surprised by the question. She allowed herself time to think about it. "You can advise them on the best ways to economise," she ventured. "With your influence, you can arrange amenities that they would otherwise never have access to. It would require very little effort on your part but it would make a tremendous difference in their lives. If they saw that you care about their welfare, it would undo a great deal of the bitterness they feel towards the masters."

Margaret was so engrossed that it took her a few moments to notice that he was regarding her with a half-arrested, half-amused expression. He shook his head. "Interesting as your ideas are, they won't work. I am their employer and my only duty toward them is the efficient running of the mill. If I neglect that, all the workers will cease to have an income."

"But you must take an interest in their lives."

"My interest will be regarded as the worst sort of interference." Leaning slightly closer, he lowered his tone as if imparting a great secret, he said, "Here in the North, we value our independence."

Margaret was silent, her forehead puckered in thought.

"What are you thinking?" he asked.

"I am trying to reconcile your admiration of despotism with your respect for independence."

"I choose to be the unquestioned master during the hours that they work for me. But when they step out of the mill, then comes the same respect for their independence that I myself exact." His eyes glinted with amusement. "Sorry to disappoint you, Margaret, it seems you would like me to play the overbearing master after all."

"I meant a simple concern for their welfare. It is not the same as trampling on their independence."

"And yet you will not concede that it was concern that prompted me to suggest that you visit Dr Donaldson. You believe I was trying to impose my will."

She was red-faced with embarrassment, the kind when one's own logic is used against oneself.

To her relief, he didn't press the matter further and walked the remaining few minutes in silence.

"Well," he said when they reached the steps to Crampton. She slipped her hand from his arm and turned to face him. "It wasn't such a hardship now, was it?" he asked and smiled so fully and so charmingly that she was left momentarily speechless.

"Mr Thornton."

"Margaret."

She turned around and climbed the steps of her home, aware of his gaze on her back until she opened the door and escaped inside.

* * *

Edith arrived two days before the wedding, bringing little Sholto and his nurse with her. Captain Lennox was away on regimental duty and had sent his best wishes.

In her letter, Margaret had described the circumstances that led to the engagement as briefly and as neutrally as possible. It was embarrassing to acknowledge that her own foolishness had cost her her freedom and her right to choose and she wanted nothing more than to get over with it as quickly as possible. Unfortunately for her, even though Edith understood that the wedding was necessary, it did not stop her from railing against the situation.

"But how shocking all this is!" Edith exclaimed. "Mama wouldn't like it at all."

Margaret silently collected the lace and fabric samples that were spread on the divan and the sofa. Fanny had arranged to have a dressmaker create a wedding dress and a few new gowns for Margaret in what was surely a new time record for preparing a wedding trousseau. Edith had insisted upon inspecting them and had looked reluctantly impressed.

"What was uncle thinking of bringing you here?" Edith continued.

"Edith, please."

"If only you had stayed with us in London, none of this would have happened," she went on pettishly.

Margaret had gone over the same thing over and over again in the days immediately following her acceptance. She was beginning to feel tired of all the belated outrage on her behalf. She dumped all the samples and material in the sewing basket and snapped the lid shut. "I have no one to blame but myself."

"Nonsense, and double nonsense! Oh, why couldn't you have accepted Henry?" Edith began on her favourite topic. "It would have been so wonderful. We could have all lived together in Harley Street. Poor Henry. You should have seen his face when he heard about—"

"Edith, enough!" Margaret said sharply.

Edith immediately sat down, looking like a wounded child. "You know, Margaret, you have the worst temper," she said, swiping a hand under her eye.

Margaret sighed wretchedly. "I am _so_ sorry," she said. "But it is no use talking in that way. You know I don't like it."

Sniffling haughtily, Edith began spreading out the shawls that she had brought from London, refusing to look at her cousin. This went on for a couple of minutes.

It was an old habit of their: Margaret would feel guilty about expressing her opinions too strongly and feel like a villain and Edith would claim injured feeling and act like an innocent victim.

"Edith," Margaret cajoled, "please, don't be like this."

Edith gave her a long-suffering look but yielded as she was eager to show off her purchases.

"This is an Indian shawl," Edith informed her as she pulled out a brightly coloured piece. After carefully refolding the shawl lengthwise, she draped it over her arm and held it up to display the design.

Unsatisfied with the effect, she pulled Margaret to her feet. "Let me see it on you."

Margaret's slender and willowy figure was perfect for showing off the long beautiful folds and the pretty borders. She stood obediently as Edith twisted her around and artfully draped the shawl.

Edith stood away a little to gaze at her. "I knew it would suit you the moment I saw it," she said triumphantly. "Just look," she turned Margaret around to face the mirror over the chimney-piece.

Smiling at her own appearance, Margaret gently touched the shawl, taking pleasure in its softness and brilliant colours. "It is lovely. Thank you." She slipped an arm around Edith's waist and gave her an affectionate squeeze.

Now that peace was restored between the cousins, they worked together and began packing away the shawls.

"What is Mr Thornton like?" Edith asked suddenly.

Margaret hesitated, wondering how to describe him, given that she herself did not know very much about him and whatever she did know was not very complimentary.

"He is a very busy man," she said. It was the easiest thing that came to her, but the words came out as a complaint. She was surprised to discover that she was somewhat miffed that he hadn't come to visit her since the day he escorted her home. She wasn't sure what the neglect meant—was it deliberate or was it because he was truly busy. She wondered why did she care.

Edith was not satisfied. "What does he look like?"

"He is . . ." Margaret hesitated again.

Objectively speaking, he was a handsome man. But handsome did not quite describe him. He had an undefinable air about him as if he were somehow apart from the people and the world he moved in. She had noticed it during the dinner party—that even as he belonged in that room, he was watching it from a distance as well. There was a certain inaccessibility to him, a cool fire about him that intrigued her. But such a thing was impossible to convey to someone who had not met him.

Margaret wasn't sure if she was being terribly fanciful in attributing such qualities to him.

"Margaret!"

She turned to look at Edith, who was regarding her with an irritated expression.

"He is tall," Margaret said. "Very tall, actually."

"Even for you?" Edith asked.

"You make me sound like a pole," Margaret complained. Edith held herself as a measure against which to compare everyone. It was only when standing next to Edith that Margaret appeared tall. In reality, she was only slightly taller than average.

"Is he fair or dark?" Edith asked impatiently.

"He is—" She paused when she noticed Mary, who had just arrived at the door.

"Mr Thornton is here, miss," she announced.

They both froze momentarily with surprise at the news. Edith gave an incredulous look before laughing, "What superb timing!"

"Please show him here," Margaret said to Mary.

Edith quickly smoothed her hair and arranged her skirts prettily about her, eager to meet the man that her cousin had such trouble describing.

Mr Thornton appeared in the doorway. He paused for a brief second, surveying the room. His gaze swiftly took in Edith and then rested on Margaret.

"Mr Thornton," Margaret rose from her seat. "This is my cousin, Mrs Edith Lennox."

"Mrs Lennox."

"I am very pleased to meet you," Edith smiled.

John took a chair near Margaret.

"Shall I send for some tea?" Margaret enquired.

"No, thank you," he said. He looked at the small pile of shawls on the divan.

"We were just putting these away," Margaret said by way of explanation.

Edith was studying him with an interested expression. "Margaret tells me that you have been quite busy," she said.

Margaret wanted to kick her. "I trust everything is back to normal at the mill?" she asked quickly, let he attach any personal meaning to Edith's statement.

"Yes," he replied. "Things are under control."

"I wish Captain Lennox could have come," Edith said. "He would have so many questions for you. He is very impressed with machinery. He told me he might dabble in cotton when he sells his commission."

"I am not sure I'm the one to speak to," he said gravely.

"Oh," Edith blinked uncertainly.

Margaret found that if it weren't for the tiny wry tug at the corner of his mouth, it would have been impossible to tell that he was privately amused at the notion that he would have any advice to offer on how to _dabble_ in cotton.

Ever the accomplished hostess, Edith covered her confusion with a bright smile. "Well. If you will excuse me, I will go upstairs and see how Sholto is faring." She slipped from the room and after flashing an encouraging smile, closed the door behind her.

"Sholto," he mused.

"It is a Scottish name," she informed him. "Edith heard it when she holidayed in the Highlands."

He nodded at that. She felt into an undecided silence as she tried to imagine the purpose of his visit.

"I see the wound has healed," he remarked.

"Yes. Of course," she said, reflexively raising a hand to her temple. Dr Donaldson had visited her and given her a salve to apply to it. Now that the wound was no longer visible, she had combed her hair away from her face.

"How are the preparations coming along?" he asked.

"Quite well. Your sister has been most helpful."

He nodded, smiling. He pulled out a jeweller's box from his coat pocket. "I came to give you this."

She looked at the box blankly for a moment before she understood what it contained. She took the box from him.

"Will you not look?" he asked.

Setting the box in her lap, she carefully released the small clasp and opened it. Cushioned between the dark velvet folds was a slim band of gold with a stunning emerald set in the center and small, twinkling diamonds surrounding it. It was exquisite.

She looked up.

"Do you like it?" he asked casually.

"It's . . . you didn't have to," she said.

"Why not?"

She opened her mouth and then shut it. She had been about to say that betrothal rings were for couples in love.

"We are to be married in two days, a betrothal ring isn't necessary," she improvised.

"I would like you to have one."

"It is beautiful," she finally said. "Thank you."

"May I?" he asked.

Before she could answer, he stood up and settled next to her on the sofa. He took the box from her hands and plucked the ring from its cushion. For such a large man, there was a captivating lightness with which he held the delicate ring.

She held her breath as he took her hand and slipped the ring on her finger, gently pushing it over her knuckle until it sat snugly in place.

That the ring was a perfect fit was noticed by both but neither commented on it. He held her hand as they sat together, looking at the ring. Margaret sensed a quiet but powerful tension building in the air. It was a strange new emotion, at once exhilarating and terrifying. She wondered if he felt it too. She risked a glance at him but his eyes were lowered, concealing their expression.

Surprised at how closely they were seated, she took the opportunity to study him discreetly. As always, he was dressed in black and white. His silk cravat was tied in a simple, crisp knot. He smelled of clean linen and a hint of smoke. His jaw was closely shaved but she could see the dark hint of his stubble. A lock of his hair had fallen over his forehead—nothing unruly but for some reason, it bothered her. She wondered what would happen if she dared to push it back—

Shocked by the direction of her thoughts, she swiftly pulled her hand away and stood up.

"I have something for you. If you'll wait a moment, I will fetch it."

She hurried out without waiting for his reply. Picking up her skirts, she ran up the stairs. As soon as she reached the hallway, Edith popped her head out of her door.

"Has he left?" she asked.

"No." Margaret entered her bedroom. Edith stepped out and followed her inside.

"Then what are you doing here?"

"I came to fetch something." Margaret opened the top drawer of her nightstand and took out the handkerchief that he had offered her on the day he proposed.

"What is that?" Edith asked.

"Edith, can we talk later? He is alone downstairs," Margaret tried to walk around her.

"Nonsense! You should let him wait," Edith advised, blocking her way. "Now tell me."

Knowing that there was no reasoning with Edith, Margaret held out her hand. "He came to give me this."

Unable to see much in the dim light of the room, Edith grabbed Margaret's hand and brought her near the window. She pushed the curtains aside and sucked in a gasp when she saw the ring.

"Oh!"

In the bright light of the day, the ring sparkled and glittered. It was truly stunning. She had not expected a ring, much less one that was carefully chosen. The emerald was a perfect match for her eyes. Some traitorous part of her thrilled in the knowledge that he had especially picked the ring for her. She had not thought that he would care very much about such things.

"I expect you shall be very spoiled," Edith predicted with a sly smile.

"Can I go now?"

Feeling much more in control of her thoughts, she made her way to the sitting room. He appeared to be studying one of her watercolours. The scene he was looking at was of an ancient cottage near the woods in Helstone. It was one of her better efforts.

She went to where he was standing, taking care to maintain an appropriate distance between them.

"Did you paint this?" he asked, seemingly absorbed by the picture.

"Yes," she said. She pointed to the figure standing bareheaded in the sun, leaning on his stick at the front of the cottage. "This is Isaac. The foresters were going to pull down his cottage as soon as he died."

"So you painted them before they were no more seen."

Margaret nodded.

"How did you fill up your days in Helstone?" he asked, turning to her.

"There was much to do. I visited the parishioners, read to the old people, brought food for the poor, taught at the school, organised the annual fete."

"And painted watercolours and read Dante," he completed. "The perfect parson's daughter."

She gave a brief smile.

He turned his attention back to the painting. "What is this?" he asked, lightly brushing a fingertip over a white blob hanging from the branch of a tree. "A bird's nest?"

"Oh no," she laughed, "that is my bonnet."

He turned when he heard her laugh as if the sound of it captivated him. The smile slowly faded from her face and was replaced with a heated blush as his gaze remained riveted to her face, the painting now completely forgotten.

Margaret was used to appreciative glances from men, but it was first time that he was regarding her with such open admiration. In all her fixation with him and his faults, she had never bothered to consider what his feelings might be about her.

"Why aren't you betrothed to anyone?" he asked suddenly.

Margaret was momentarily taken aback by the question but the next instant, colour surged to her face. Her thoughts immediately went to Henry and his proposal. However, it was not something she could tell him.

"Nineteen is too young to be betrothed," she said and held out the handkerchief in front of her in a bid to stop further questions. "I wanted to return this."

But he wasn't satisfied with the answer. "Is that what you told them?" he asked, ignoring the handkerchief.

She stiffened. "There were no _them_."

"One then?"

Margaret was caught, unable to confirm or deny. But he, of course, had his answer.

She was starting to feel foolish standing there, holding out a handkerchief that he didn't seem interested in at all. "You offered it on—"

"I remember." The look of intense concentration left his face. "I was curious," he admitted.

She frowned at him deciding how to respond but in the end, chose not to pursue the subject and thrust the handkerchief at him again. "Will you take this please?"

He looked away for a moment, trying to hide his smile before looking back at her and taking it from her. "I must be going," he said, returning the handkerchief to his pocket. "I believe you still have a lot of things to do."

She nodded. Margaret had yet to pack her belongings, meagre though they were and she was still in the midst of settling her father's household so that it could run smoothly without her.

She followed him out of the room and down the stairs, unconsciously twisting the ring on her finger. She had never worn a ring before. It was a new and strange weight and would take a while to get accustomed to the feel of it.

While he collected his things, she fell into a contemplative silence. How capricious life was. She _had_ been the perfect parson's daughter. She had found great enjoyment in filling the post of the only daughter in Helstone parsonage. But when that role was gone, she had tried to involve herself in the lives of Milton's workers. And now that too was being taken away from her and she was being thrust into the role of a capitalist's wife.

They both lingered in the foyer for some strange reason, a hundred questions filling the air between them.

"Don't look so sombre," he said gently. "There is no reason why we can't be happy together."

Margaret lifted her face to him and as their gazes caught, she was surprised to discover that he actually meant it. He did not seem to admit that a match between them would never work and she knew that it would be churlish—and pointless—of her to insist otherwise.

She swallowed hard and made herself give him a small but hopeful nod.

As she watched him leave, she realised that the next time she saw him, he would be waiting for her at the altar.

* * *

 **A/N** : Thank you for all the wonderful comments and all the encouragement. I thought a chapter before the wedding where we can see them interact and establish some of the dynamics between them would be useful and hopefully interesting. Also because I am writing the characters somewhat differently, especially John, we need a chapter like this to reveal the personalities a bit more.

I am so excited about the next chapter. I hope you are as well. Till then, take care, thanks for reading and _please_ leave a comment!

Love,

SQ


	5. The Wedding

**-THE WEDDING-**

Margaret woke up on the day of her wedding feeling astonishingly calm.

The previous night, Edith had all but locked her inside her room and forced her to get some sleep. Margaret had complained at the time, but now, refreshed from the sleep, she felt grateful to her cousin for her insistence. Sitting in the relative quiet of her room, she could hear the household already buzzing with activity.

"Wake up!" Edith knocked on Margaret's door. "You don't want to be late to your own wedding," she called cheerfully.

Margaret opened the door to find an impatient but smiling Edith. "Did you not advise me to let him wait?" Margaret asked, mustering a small smile.

"Not today, you silly goose." Edith grinned and let herself inside the room.

Within minutes, Margaret found herself in the center of a whirlwind. It was dizzying to watch Edith. She was everywhere at once, bustling in and out of rooms, issuing orders to Mary and the nurse, whom she had enlisted as a temporary lady's maid.

There was an endless commotion for this and that. Items were brought forth, considered and then put aside until they were required again and had to be hunted for. Trunks were emptied, almirahs were raided and her bedroom resembled a battlefield with scissors and needles and pins scattered on every available surface.

Margaret understood that it was futile to resist so she quietly submitted to her cousin.

The tightening and tugging and smoothening and tucking went on for hours until Edith was satisfied with the results.

Finally, _finally_ she was dressed. The carriage would arrive any minute to take them to the church. Her belongings had already been taken away earlier in the morning to her new home.

Looking at her empty room, she finally felt all her nerves bundle and coil in the pit of her stomach.

She breathed long and deep, trying to calm her mind. To distract herself, she wandered to the mirror and studied herself carefully.

Her gown was made of delicate ivory satin and was cut in a simple and modest style with long tight-fitted sleeves. There were no frills or flounces to the gown but it wasn't completely lacking in embellishment. The hem was trimmed with intricate lace as was the edge of her bodice and the cuff of her sleeves. The full, pleated skirt was clinched with a belt of the same ivory satin and emphasised her slim waist.

A lace veil that fell the full length of the gown from a small coronet of orange-flower blossoms, satin slippers with long ribbons and a delicate pair of short gloves completed the bridal ensemble. Before wearing her gloves, Margaret had moved her engagement ring to the third finger, leaving the ring finger free to accept the wedding band.

She fidgeted with the ring now.

"The carriages are here," Edith announced, stepping inside the room.

Margaret arrived at the church with her father and Edith. The usher greeted them and led them to the vestibule from a side door. Mr Bell, Sholto and his nurse were already seated inside. She could hear the hum of the congregation and realised that a large one had gathered to witness this wedding.

"Margaret does us credit, does she not, uncle?" Edith asked beaming with pride.

Her father nodded, his eyes glistening and coming to her, he brushed a kiss on her forehead.

The usher opened the door a crack and music floated into the small room.

"It's time," Edith remarked unnecessarily and looked at her. Despite their wildly different temperament, there was an unbreakable bond between them. The memories of childhood games and squabbles, whispered secrets and shared laughs lit up their eyes. "Oh, darling!" and with that Edith crushed Margaret into a tight embrace, forgetting all the care she had taken not to wrinkle the delicate satin.

A surprised half-sob, half-laugh escaped Margaret. Edith dabbed at her eyes and after placing a tender kiss on her cousin's cheek, carefully lowered the veil over Margaret's face.

This was it, Margaret thought to herself. She was standing in her bridal gown, just moments away from walking down the aisle. It was the moment that she had prepared herself for the last two weeks. She drew a deep breath and nodded to her father. Edith took up her train.

The usher opened the door fully. Inside the church, the low murmuring ceased and was replaced with an expectant silence.

The congregation was indeed large and Margaret was absurdly grateful for the veil. Even though it was a fine lace, it gave her a sense of safety. She was aware of the eyes that assessed her and wondered about the circumstances that led to this hasty marriage.

She didn't look at him as she walked to the altar. She kept her eyes down the entire time and focused on breathing evenly. It was only when her father brought her to the altar and lifted her veil that she looked up. His blue gaze met hers, and they flared with some strong emotion she could not identify.

They turned and stood together and the ceremony began.

Margaret listened carefully to the familiar words. She heard his deep voice promising to love and to cherish her forever.

When it was her turn, she looked up into his eyes and repeated after the minister, ". . . for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and . . ." she paused for an imperceptible moment that only he was aware of ". . . to obey, till death us do part . . ."

He took the gold ring from the minister and placing it on her finger, spoke in a steady voice. "With this ring, I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow." And with that, he pushed the ring on her finger.

They knelt down and the minister read out the final prayers and blessed them.

He stood up and helped her to rise. Together they went into the vestry, with their families following them. The parish register was laid out on the table and she signed herself as Margaret Hale for the last time.

And it was done.

She stood in the vestry feeling slightly numb. She was vaguely aware of Edith smoothing the veil behind her and the conversation between her father and Mr Watson.

When they stepped through the church door, she was stunned by the bright sunlight that greeted her. She hadn't noticed the sky when she had arrived but sometime during the ceremony, the clouds had parted and the sun had come out. Margaret looked up and blinked in astonishment.

The world suddenly came into vivid focus.

Someone, rather several someones, showered rice and seeds at them. She heard the cheerful greeting of the guests as they spilled outside and the joyful pealing of the church bells.

In all her imaginings about how this day would unfold, she had never expected that it would be such an unexpectedly—she briefly looked up again—sunny, bright and hopeful day. It was a perfect day to get married, she realised.

And despite everything, a sudden, inexplicable happiness bubbled within her and she found that she was smiling.

"Margaret?"

Still smiling, she turned to look at him.

His eyes were so vibrantly blue . . . it was the only thought she could form before he bent his head and kissed her.

It was a brief but firm kiss and as he pulled away, she heard the guests applaud, heard Edith's and Fanny's surprised, delighted laugh and heard the street urchins who had gathered to watch the wedding procession whistle loud and long.

And instead of embarrassment, she felt caught up in the happiness of the moment. She instinctively understood that the kiss was born of the same simple, unguarded joy that she was feeling.

She may not have got the small, quiet wedding she had dreamed of but she had got a happy wedding instead.

* * *

Because the house in Crampton would not be able to accommodate a wedding party, it had been decided that the wedding breakfast would be held in the banquet room of the Clarendon. John had offered to host the party at Marlborough Mills but Mr Hale said that he preferred a more neutral location as it would allow him to contribute equally to the wedding expense.

When John and Margaret arrived at the hotel, the manager was waiting for them outside and after congratulating them showed them to the banquet hall. The hall was gorgeously decorated and tables and chairs were set out for the guests.

Fanny and Watson were the first to arrive.

"John!" Fanny exclaimed and he bent down to allow Fanny to kiss him on the cheek. "I am so happy." Then turning to Margaret, she gathered her in her usual warm hug. "We are truly sisters now."

Margaret's family soon came behind them. After another round of congratulations and wishes, the women whisked Margaret away to an adjoining room, presumably to fix her clothing before the guests arrived, although he didn't see anything that needed to be fixed. She was perfection.

"I think you have been caught," came a cheerful comment.

Forcing his features into a blank mask, John turned to face Watson.

John had known Watson for nearly seven years. They had started out as business associates—Watson had benefited from John's business acumen and John had benefitted from Watson's contacts. But as their acquaintance deepened over the years, they had discovered that they shared a lot of interests and were quite alike in many ways. Like him, Watson was a man of science and progress with scant patience for outdated notions. They would sit and argue about business and economics and scientific inventions for hours. In the last few years, Watson had turned his attention to politics and his election as the mayor was only the first step in what he hoped would be a long and fruitful political career. John had no political ambitions, having discovered a keen interest and talent for business early on. But the friendship they had struck up had held true and John continued using Watson as a sounding board for ideas and discussed most things with him—except, of course, private matters and Watson respected that. But it seemed that was about to change.

"I didn't believe it when Fanny told me but now I am inclined to agree with her," Watson said.

"You agree with everything she says."

"True," he admitted readily. "But we are talking about you. You know I have always wondered what sort of girl would catch your attention," Watson mused giving him a speculative look. "In all the years I have known you, I'd never expected you to make such an obvious display," he continued, looking vastly amused.

John decided it best to let Watson say his piece, any denial would only encourage him.

Watson grinned at his silence. "Ah! Since you're not going to rise to the bait, I will save my opinions for later."

"Watson, not a day in your life has gone by when you've saved your opinions for later. Go ahead, say what you think."

Watson laughed. "Very well, I will say it. This marriage is no duty to you. If anything, you've managed to dispense with the courtship. I am truly sorry I will not get to see that. You shouldn't have gotten away so easily."

"Watson," John felt his face slide into a reluctant smile. "Go to the devil."

"I believe I will," Watson replied amiably and took himself off in Mr Bell's direction.

John knew that Watson was right. Such an obvious display had been uncharacteristic. John could hardly believe it of himself. He was not given to public display of emotion, or private for that matter. Standing at the altar, he had presented his usual calm façade to the world. No one had suspected the bizarre mix of triumph and desire and panic that had filled him as he had watched her walk down the aisle or the sense of responsibility and possessiveness that he had experienced when he had pushed his ring on her finger.

She had looked so serious and calm throughout the ceremony and then later when they had stepped outside the church that he had been consumed with the intense need to know what she was thinking and feeling. He had been about to ask her.

But before he could, she had tipped her face to the sky and smiled. And eclipsed the sun. Some pure and honest emotion had filled his heart then. He hadn't even known what he was doing. He had simply followed his instinct and for a man who never allowed instinct or emotions to so completely rule him, there was something alarming in the realisation.

He had hoped to approach marriage with the same careful consideration with which he approached everything. He knew that Margaret would be an ideal wife for a man of his station. She was cultured and graceful. She would conduct herself with poise and sophistication. She would be a wonderful hostess and an engaging companion. But he also knew that all these rationalizations had come after he had decided that he wanted her as his wife. And that decision had nothing to do with logic. All he knew was he had been captivated with her since the moment he had laid eyes on her and he didn't care to analyse his feelings beyond that.

John kept Margaret by his side throughout the celebrations, introducing her to the guests. They were all charmed by her beauty, the southern lilt of her voice and her smile. The smile she now wore was her careful, social smile completely different from the artless, glorious one that he had seen this morning. But they were charmed, nonetheless.

An elaborate luncheon was served and trays of champagne circulated freely. The three wedding cakes were brought out and Margaret cut the rich, thickly frosted fruitcake meant for the guests. The slices were boxed and would be given to the guest when they departed. Which as far as he could tell would be a while.

Afternoon soon turned into evening and the celebrations continued with endless toasting. Fanny was comfortably ensconced with her friends, no doubt spinning some starry-eyed story about how deeply they were in love and how quickly they had wanted to marry, leaving her no time to plan a proper wedding. Judging from the rapt attention and indulgent smiles with which the women were listening to her yarn, she was succeeding brilliantly.

Without realising it, both Margaret and he had also played to the role perfectly.

With her lowered eyes and shy footsteps, Margaret had been the very picture of an innocent and demure bride as she walked down the aisle. And with that impulsive kiss outside the church, he had behaved like an infatuated groom. He knew without a doubt that the guests present today would report back the story to those who had not received an invitation. Margaret's actions during the riot and the subsequent hasty marriage would be described as a charming story of romantic recklessness. Her reputation would be restored.

As the day wore on, he kept glancing repeatedly at Margaret and when he noticed the weary slump of her shoulders, he called for a final toast and made a small speech, thanking everyone for their good wishes and for their presence.

They could leave now and the guest would depart shortly thereafter. The family gathered to bid them farewell.

"John," Mr Hale approached him. "I want to thank you for—"

"Please, Mr Hale," John interrupted. "There is no need."

Mr Hale seemed to hesitate. "Take care of her," he finally said. "She is very precious to me."

John tried to suppress his sudden irritation with Mr Hale. For all his knowledge and education, Mr Hale was a weak and ineffectual man and from what he knew, a negligent father. After Margaret had accepted his proposal, John had immediately gone to meet Mr Hale at the Lyceum Hall. He was surprised to discover that Mr Hale's first concern had not been his daughter but the family reputation. He must have known that Margaret would have given her agreement with great reluctance, yet he had only expressed his relief at her decision. So this belated concern for his daughter was not only pointless but also insulting to John.

"Come now, Richard," came Mr Bell's admonishment. "Our Margaret couldn't be in safer hands."

John looked at his father-in-law. "I will take care of her," he assured the old man gravely.

"There!" Mr Bell clapped his friend's shoulder. "Now cheer up, old chap."

Mr Hale nodded weakly and turned to look at his daughter, who stood with her cousin.

John saw Margaret laugh as she freed her veil from Sholto's chubby grip and shower his little face with kisses. Edith clasped Margaret in a tight embrace and made her promise to come to London soon.

She moved to her godfather next. Mr Bell took her hands in his and bid her a warm farewell. She finally turned towards her father. John watched with interest as she immediately adopted a soothing, brisk manner as if he were a child. She kissed him on both cheeks and reminded him to collect his overcoat before leaving.

Facing away from her father, John saw her blink rapidly, fighting to control her emotions. He gently guided her outside and helped her into the carriage and once she was comfortably seated, pulled the door shut.

The carriage ride to the house was made in silence. After all the gaiety and chatter, John appreciated the quiet and he suspected so did Margaret. He noticed that her eyes were now clear but a new nervousness had taken its place.

When they reached his home, one of the maids rushed out of the house to assist her and to take her bouquet. When she was ready, he led her inside, where they were met by the small household staff.

The word household or even house was to be applied loosely in his case. He had often thought about moving into a bachelor's apartment but the house was attached to the mill and even if he didn't need such a large house, it was convenient.

He spent most of his time at the mill and used only three rooms in the house—the study, the library, and his bedroom. The sitting room and the formal dining room were used when he had his business associates over for dinner or drinks. He supposed the other rooms in the house were occasionally aired. He had never had any reason to venture into the kitchen or near the servant's quarters. He dealt chiefly with Grimsby, whom he had given complete charge of the household. Grimsby was an old widower and a supremely capable man. He acted as the butler, housekeeper and any role John chose to assign him. But all that was going to change now that the house had a mistress.

"This is Grimsby," John introduced him to Margaret.

Grimsby stepped forward to welcome them and offered his congratulations and then proceeded to introduce the rest of the staff to her. John watched with admiration as Margaret ignored her exhaustion and greeted everyone with an interested smile and thanked them.

The introductions were soon over and the staff tactfully left them alone.

He led Margaret to the formal sitting room, where a tea service was kept ready for them, in case they were so inclined. He noticed that the house had been scrubbed clean in preparation for the new mistress. The windowpanes had been polished, the carpet swept and every surface dusted and spotless. But the house was devoid of character and he was curious to see how Margaret would change it.

"I haven't bothered much with the décor," he said. "Feel free to decorate the house as you like. I believe you will also need to hire more servants. Make whatever changes you think are necessary."

She looked endearingly uncertain as she slowly and carefully looked around, trying to make sense of her new home. She had only been here twice—the dinner party and the next morning. On the first occasion, Fanny had arranged to have the room decorated beyond recognition and on the second, he doubted Margaret had paid any attention.

He remembered something. "Come." Placing his hand on her back, he guided her to the one room he believed would please her enormously.

He opened the door to the library and watched the wariness in her eyes change to immediate interest. It was a medium-sized room with tall bookshelves covering most of the walls. There were countless scientific journals and periodicals piled high on the floor. A large, comfortable chair was placed near the fireplace and a small settee covered with more journals sat under the window. It wasn't a grand library or even a particularly well-organised one. He knew where all the books were kept and that had been enough. He imagined the slightly haphazard arrangement suggested it was a room that was much frequented and used.

She stepped inside and automatically drifted towards the shelves stacked with rows and rows of books.

"There aren't many novels here," he told her. "But if you are interested in architecture and science, there are plenty of books." He pointed to the third shelf. "This one has volumes on engineering, philosophy, economics and a few books that your father wouldn't approve of."

Instead of feminine shock, she turned to him with a curious glance. He realised with a quiet laugh that his innocent little parson's daughter could not conceive that such books might exist.

"Have you read Darwin?" he asked as he went to the shelf and pulled out a copy of Darwin's _Journal of Researches_.

She shook her head as she accepted the book. He watched her read the title page and turn to the preface.

"He doesn't seem to believe that the world came about the way it is described in the Bible," he explained.

Her head shot up. "Does he say that here?"

"Not in so many words."

She looked at the book with curiosity, her brows furrowed in a way he was becoming familiar with. "I would like to read why he thinks so," she finally said.

Although he was pleased by her interest, he had no wish to impose his reading preferences on her. "I have an account at Hardy's, you can order books of your choice from there."

"That won't be necessary." She looked around at the volumes surrounding them. "These books will keep me occupied for a long time," she said with her first genuine smile since morning.

In a moment of startling clarity, he knew that this was where he would always find her, curled up on the settee by the window, with her nose in a book. He smiled at the image.

He took the book from her and placed it on the table. "Let me show you upstairs." Running his hands down her wrist, he slowly uncurled her fingers. He could sense the tension ripple through her slender frame.

Taking her arm, John led his bride up the wide stairs and to the upper apartments.

The first-floor hallway, like the rest of the house, was sparsely furnished. The master suite consisted of a sitting room with a bedroom on each side, each with its own dressing room. A couple could live here and go weeks without seeing each other, he realised wryly.

"That's my room," he gestured to the bedroom on the right. Pushing open the door to the second room, he stepped aside to let her enter. He stood in the doorway and watched as she walked to the centre of the room and slowly turned around.

The room was decorated with hand-painted chinoiserie wallpaper in a soft golden yellow. A four-poster bed with lace curtains enclosing it rested against one of the walls and a vanity table with an upholstered seat tucked inside it stood on the opposite side. The windows were draped with lace curtains and a writing table was positioned between them. A chaise lounge sat near the hearth where a small fire flickered and along with the oil lamps on the tables created inviting pools of warm light around the room.

The sight of Margaret in the room, so pretty and so alluring, wrapped in her bridal finery, her skin glowing from the light sent a sharp pang through him.

"No pink and blue roses," he remarked with a brief smile.

She must be tired or nervous or both because she had to look again at the wallpaper before acknowledging his comment with a small nod.

"I will send a maid to attend to you," he said. "You will find your belongings in the dressing room." He noted the relief on her features and then the colour bloom on her face when he told her, "I will come back later."

* * *

Margaret was stunned to find that the maid assigned to her was none other than Jane. The girl, who in all likelihood, was responsible for the situation that she was in, and although she now stood meekly by the door, awaiting instructions, Margaret did not trust her in the least. She was shifty-eyed and appeared too contrite.

Realising that she would have to make do with her for now, Margaret allowed the girl to undress her. The gown had a row of tiny buttons down the back and it took a long time to unfasten them. Each satin button had to be carefully removed from the loop so as not to pull or accidentally tear the fabric.

Margaret sighed with relief as the tightly laced corset was finally loosened and her hair was released from the intricate coiffure.

Jane went into the dressing room and carefully placed the gown and veil on an upholstered stool. It would be properly packed away tomorrow. She returned with the new nightgown that Edith had purchased in London and laid it out on the bed.

"Please take out my other gown," she instructed after one look at it.

"Are you certain?" Jane asked, her eyes fixed on the daringly cut nightdress.

Margaret looked at her sternly. "Quite."

Jane took the garment back into the dressing room. Margaret followed her and discovered an adjoining antechamber. The room contained a washstand with a large mirror placed over it, a roll top bath and a cabinet that opened into a water closet.

While Margaret washed her face and donned the nightdress, a supper tray of sandwiches and a pot of tea was delivered to her room. When she returned, she sat down at the vanity table and picked up her hairbrush.

"Shall I brush it out?" Jane asked.

Margaret wordlessly handed her the brush.

"You have such lovely hair, ma'am," Jane remarked as she ran the brush through them. Her hair was her private vanity. It was thick and amazingly soft and fell to her hips in long, loose waves. Jane brushed out the creases and bumps and restored her hair to its usual glossy smoothness.

"That will be all," Margaret said. Taking only a cup of tea from the tray, she said, "Please take the rest away."

Jane picked up the tray and after bobbing a quick curtsey hastened out of the room. Margaret forced herself to take a few sips but it did little to calm her.

After the elation of the morning and the poise in the afternoon, she hated how nervous and different she felt now. Edith, who was usually a fount of unsolicited advice, had nothing useful to tell her about what to expect tonight. She had blushed and stammered and told her that her husband would perform certain intimate acts and that she must trust him. Margaret suspected that Edith had merely repeated what Aunt Shaw must have told her.

No longer able to contain her agitation, she started pacing the room. Margaret forced herself to think about it logically, calmly. She had agreed to be his wife— _was_ his wife. And that meant allowing him his rights. It was nothing new. It was what was expected of married women and it was probably best to get it over with.

Steeling her mind with determination, she sat back on the stool. It was a lovely room, she forced herself to notice. She could see that he had personally chosen the furniture and the decorations. His taste, when he cared to reveal it, was for beautiful and fine designs with striking details rather than the heavy, ornate styles that were so popular. It explained all those books on architecture and—

Margaret jumped to her feet when she heard a knock on her door. Running her hands over her nightgown, she took a deep breath and another and lifted her chin.

"Come in," she called.

The door opened and his tall form filled the doorway. He paused at the entrance with his hand on the doorknob.

His gaze travelled over her in a slow sweep. Margaret felt her entire body blush and she unconsciously pressed a hand to her midriff to calm herself. His eyes caught the movement and lingered there for a moment before returning to her face.

Tearing his eyes away from her, he stepped into the room and closed the door with a soft click.

"Are you settled in?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Please sit," he said.

Margaret sank back on the seat and nervously picked up her brush. She turned towards the mirror and began brushing her hair, giving herself something to do.

He walked to the bed and half-sat on it to watch her. He was still dressed in his wedding suit and it made her acutely conscious of her own state of undress. The nightgown was hardly revealing and covered her far more than most evening dresses but no man had seen her in it or with her hair loose.

Desperate to break the silent tension, she acknowledged belatedly. "This is a beautiful room."

"I am glad you noticed," he said smiling.

She looked in the mirror and saw him remove his cravat and tuck it into his coat pocket. She swiftly dropped her gaze when he caught it.

She stilled when she saw him push away from the bed and walk toward her. Stopping near her, he held out his hand. She laid down the brush on the dresser and placed a trembling hand in his. Warm fingers immediately closed over her hand.

"Where are your rings?" he asked.

Her heart was hammering so loudly that she could scarcely hear a word. It took her a moment to form a reply. "I had to remove my gloves."

She saw that he found the rings resting on a small enamel tray on the dresser. Margaret watched in silence as he picked them up and slipped the slim wedding band back on the fourth finger and then pushed the engagement ring on top of it.

"Is that all right?" he asked.

She gave him a nod.

He gently tugged her hand, pulling her to her feet. The movement eliminated all the space between them, his long, hard body nearly touching hers.

She kept her eyes fixed on the strong column of his throat as he brought her hand to his mouth and pressed a hot kiss into her palm. Heat flooded from her hand to her shoulder and to the rest of her body. She was bewildered by what was happening to her. She had hoped to remain calm and detached but she had not expected _this_.

Feeling the intensity of his gaze upon her, she lowered her head, hiding her flushed face.

He lifted his hand and softly brushed back her hair. Her pulse escalated wildly as his thumb found and gently stroked the now nearly invisible scar and she tried not to tremble when he stepped even closer and brushed his lips over it as if he could soothe away the old pain.

Sliding his fingers to the curve of her jaw, he angled her face upward and lowered his head. A soft rush of air escaped her lips and her mind went blank.

Margaret went utterly still beneath the soft, burning kiss and for a frantic moment, she thought that she would let him do whatever he wanted as long as she could hold onto her thoughts and herself. She forced her body to relax but he was making it impossible. His lips were warm and persuasive as they coaxed unfamiliar sensations out of her. She could feel the heat of his mouth, the taste of champagne on his breath, the scent of starched linen and musk. She tensed when he cupped the back of her head, slowly sliding long fingers through her hair in a soft caress. His lips drifted across her cheek to her ear, feathering small kisses along the way. Gently tugging her head back, he found the sensitive skin beneath her ear, making her shiver and arch against him, before returning to her mouth with increased pressure and urgency. Sensations blazed through her, too dizzying to control and so beyond her experience that she was overwhelmed and terrified.

She pushed her hands between them.

"No," she said against his lips.

He immediately stilled and drew back. His face was taut and she saw a flash of anger cross his features, he nonetheless relaxed his hold and released her with great care and stepped away.

A dreadful, tense silence filled the room. She was keenly aware of his restraint and the tide of embarrassment and guilt that swept over her.

"I can't . . ." she swallowed hard. "I can't . . . I am sorry, but I—"

"Hush," he said, sounding annoyed. He paused for a moment. "Did I hurt you?"

"No."

"Did I offend you?"

She shook her head, becoming increasingly flushed.

"Then?" he demanded.

"I don't know," she said helplessly.

"You will have to do better than that, Margaret."

She could sense the exasperation and anger beneath his self-control. She knew she must seem unreasonable and difficult. She tried desperately to sort through her jumbled and confused thoughts. Her confusion came from so many sources that she couldn't tell them apart.

She now understood that she should have stopped him or talked to him before he approached her. She had thought that she would simply close her eyes, avert her face and play the martyr. She had not realised that her body and emotions were not separate. That she would have to give far more than she had bargained for.

His proposal had been so calm and reasonable. He had tried to assure her that they could have a workable marriage. He would have a wife and she would be saved from the consequences of her ill-advised actions. She had agreed to marry that man—the practical, somewhat aloof stranger. She would have been able to lie with that man. But this man—this man who remembered the exact colour of her eyes, who claim to not want her obedience, who thought she was intelligent enough to read difficult subjects—was no longer such a stranger. He was someone she was beginning to know and that knowledge had strangely made it impossible for her to do this. She had no idea why it should be so when it should have been the opposite and she wasn't sure how to explain any of this to him when she did not understand it herself.

Margaret ventured a cautious glance at him. He was still staring at her, waiting for her answer. She clutched at the only thing she could think of. "Mr Thornton, I don't know you."

"You can begin by learning to say my name."

She ignored the sarcasm.

"John," she said carefully and then, she said it once more, louder. "John, we can try to become friends," she suggested awkwardly, hardly believing what she was saying.

"No," he said flatly. "I don't want to become your friend."

She looked stunned at that.

"Friendship is a poor substitute," he said.

"That is not true," she said, her confidence momentarily asserting itself. "Marriage is about companionship, friendship and mutual respect and understanding."

He replied in a gently caustic tone. "You know little of marriage if you believe that is all there is to it."

The silence that followed his statement was excruciating. He was regarding her with an expression that said nothing of him but everything of her. She had never felt so horribly naïve, had not realised the unbelievable ignorance with which she had approached this marriage. She dropped her gaze, feeling miserable and lost.

She heard him draw a deep breath. "Very well," he muttered and started towards her. Startled, Margaret immediately shrank back.

They both went still.

He moved towards her with deliberate slowness and stood before her, not quite touching her.

"I won't come to you if you are not ready. You have been through a great many changes so take your time, if that is what you want. But just so you are clear," he gripped her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. "I do not care for a platonic marriage. I do not want a celibate marriage with you."

The words stole her breath away. She felt her cheeks burn blood-hot at the blunt admission. He was looking at her, waiting for her response. Margaret made herself nod.

He dipped his head and kissed her on the mouth. It was a brief but firm kiss.

"Sleep well."

He seemed to take all the warmth in the room with him. Margaret shivered and brought her arms around her, feeling safe and . . . oddly lonely.

* * *

 **A/N:** Phew! I must admit this was a nerve-wracking chapter to write. The wedding, especially, the wedding night is such a key moment in N &S stories. I feel so exhausted!

So... how did I do? Please let me know. I _need_ to know.

Love you guys! Take care!

\- SQ


	6. The Day After

**-THE DAY AFTER-**

Margaret slept fitfully during the night. Her thoughts were in chaos. She felt deeply troubled and conflicted, unable to decide what she ought to do now.

She was hideously embarrassed and angry with herself. She did not want to think about how she must have appeared—her composure and calm shattered, her ideas incoherent and ignorant.

She hated him for making her feel so unlike herself, for throwing all her thoughts into disarray, for challenging everything she believed. His words played over and over again in her mind. She had always respected honesty and forthrightness but she had never imagined that she would be having such a conversation with him. She was horribly ashamed that he should feel this way and say such things to her.

As she tossed and turned in her bed, the shocking memory of his kiss played in her mind. She wished she could obliterate the memory of those moments. Despite her efforts to remain calm and detached, she had found herself responding to him. She knew that her reaction to him was nothing short of appalling, but even now her body seemed unwilling to surrender the sensation and she caught herself imagining would have followed had she not stopped him.

 _What was wrong with her!_

How could she indulge in such thoughts about a man she did not love or know? It didn't matter that he was her husband. It was wrong. This was neither love nor friendship. This was . . . she frowned. Never mind what it was. If it was not accompanied by any emotion she could recognise or value, she did not want it.

The prospect of facing him tomorrow filled her with acute embarrassment. What chain of events had led her to this miserable moment, she wondered.

Life used to be so simple and straightforward and she wanted that old life back. She wanted to go back—back to her small room in Crampton or Harley Street. Or Helstone. Anywhere but _here_. The tasteful decor, the luxurious bedding seemed to taunt her.

Weary and anxious, confused and ashamed, she finally fell into an exhausted sleep in the early hours of the morning.

She was sleeping when the chambermaid came into her room. She became hazily aware of the girl stirring the grate and tidying the room and when she drew back the curtains to let in the morning light, Margaret peeled her eyes open and sat up in her bed.

Jane entered the room. "Good morning, ma'am."

It felt strange and extravagant to have two servants attending to her. Even when she had lived in Harley Street, she had shared a lady's maid with Edith and the chambermaid would tidy her room only after she had vacated it and gone downstairs for breakfast. She preferred spending the first few minutes of the day by herself and in Crampton, it had never been a problem.

Blinking, Margaret took in her new surroundings. The day impossibly bright and the soft yellow wallpaper made the room appear airy and cheerful.

"What time is it?" she suddenly asked.

"Quarter past seven," Jane replied, looking down to hide a sly smile. "Shall I run a bath?"

She had overslept. Margaret got out of bed and hastily pulled on her robe. Another knock sounded on the door. Jane went to answer it and returned with a breakfast tray.

"The master asked to send this for you," she informed.

"Is Mr Thornton at breakfast?"

When Jane confirmed with a nod, Margaret quickly made up her mind. "Please take it back," and before she could think herself out the decision, she added, "I shall breakfast with him."

She went to the dressing room with Jane following her closely behind. Margaret was perfectly capable of washing and dressing without assistance but Jane continued to hover around, setting the towels on the warming rack, unwrapping the soap bar, adding more hot water to the tub.

"Ma'am?" she asked, waiting by the bath.

"That will be all," she said. "I will ask if I need assistance."

Margaret dressed quickly but with determined carefulness, packing her body in stiff corset and layers of starched clothing and gathering and twisting all her hair in a tight knot, even putting extra pins to secure them in place.

When she finished dressing, she studied herself in the mirror to make sure she looked . . . looked what, she wondered.

Proper? Contained? Austere?

She did not want to step outside, she realised. She wanted to hide away till the embarrassment of last night receded, though she doubted it would ever recede completely. He had spoken so openly about his expectations, while she could barely bring herself to even think such a thing. She wished she knew how to act and be around him or what his behaviour would be toward her after last night. He had been angry but he had agreed to give her time, albeit grudgingly.

A quick glance at the mantel clock told her that she had tarried too long. Taking a deep breath, Margaret gathered her courage and stepped out of her room.

He was seated at a small table by the window in the sitting room of the suite. He had been reading a newspaper but stood up when she entered.

She had thought that the breakfast would be served in the dining room downstairs. She felt nervous at the prospect of being alone with him, without any of the servants to act as a buffer.

"Good morning." He folded the paper and kept it aside.

Margaret schooled her expression and returned his greeting. A plate setting had been laid for her and a second chair had been added.

When she reached the table, he pulled out the chair and seated her. He had begun his breakfast but had set it aside to wait for her.

"I was not sure if you would be joining me," he explained. "I thought you might want to rest today."

"I am sorry if you had to wait long," she said, briefly meeting his gaze.

"It is all right. I had the teapot refilled," he told her.

Margaret lifted the pot and busied herself making a cup of tea. She added milk and sugar and held the porcelain cup with both hands, allowing the warmth to seep into her hands. She remained silent as she continued to hold the cup close to her and stared at its contents, giving herself time to get used to his presence.

Her somewhat guarded posture was not lost on him. He picked up the folded newspaper and returned his attention to it.

He appeared completely relaxed and self-possessed, seemingly comfortable with her presence in what must have been a solitary ritual for him until yesterday. She darted a glance at him and saw that his breakfast consisted of toast, poached eggs and fried tomatoes. Her gaze fell to his long fingers, elegant but strong, with short-trimmed nails. She watched the cup disappear in his large hand as he drank absently while reading the paper. She did not know why she was fascinated, perhaps it was the novelty of watching him do something as mundane as eating.

He lifted his head suddenly and as his gaze locked with hers, she realised that she had been staring at him.

"You are not going to eat?" he asked.

Margaret set her cup aside and began on her breakfast. Although she was hungry, she felt no real appetite. She picked up a toasted muffin from the bread basket and applied herself to spreading a dollop of marmalade on it.

They fell into a lengthy silence as they ate. The silence was broken by Grimsby who came with more hot water for the tea.

"The cook said that whenever Mrs Thornton prefers, she would be happy to show her the kitchen," he informed them.

"Please tell her I will be ready after breakfast," she said, eager for the occupation.

When Grimsby closed the door behind him, John said, "You don't need to get started right away. Let me show you the rest of the house this morning. I haven't looked around the place in a while."

After breakfast, they stepped out of the master suite and made their way down the long hallway.

"This is Fanny's," he said, gesturing to a door. Margaret guessed that the room must still be reserved for a visiting Fanny because he did not open it.

They continued further down the hallway. There were bedrooms on both sides. "I am rarely in this section," he commented as they inspected the rooms. One of the rooms had a bed and a large wooden wardrobe but the rest were mostly empty. However, all the rooms had been kept clean and were well aired.

A flight of stairs at the end of the hall took them to the top floor.

"The staff rooms are at that end," he motioned down the corridor. He opened the door to a set of rooms to their immediate right.

Margaret walked inside but John remained in the doorway. The wallpaper, though somewhat faded, had a light-coloured, whimsical design and the windows had bars on them, indicating that the room was the nursery.

He watched her as she went into the attached schoolroom and bedroom. She did not linger very long and quickly slipped out of the room.

They descended the stairs and walked back the way they had come. To Margaret's surprise, there was another set of rooms near the main staircase. Margaret had no idea that the house was so big. The house was designed for a large family with children and grandparents.

He pushed open the door to what appeared to be two chambers connected by a large sliding door. She walked further into the room and went to the large window. She pushed it open and leaned out. Below the window was a large unpaved yard that ran the full length of the house and was surrounded by tall red brick walls on three sides. She guessed the back alley and mews would be located beyond the wall.

"It was meant to be a private back garden," he said as he came to stand by her. "It had been abandoned when I bought the house."

"How old is the house?" she asked.

"Sixty years old," he said. "No structural alterations were made in all these years. My contribution was to install indoor plumbing and stoves in the kitchen."

"I hadn't realised the house was so large," she admitted.

He smiled. "Marlborough Street was one of the main streets in Milton. Back then nobody expected it to become the place it is now, so they built big houses. The front garden would have been planned where the warehouse now stands. The moment they discovered industry, all notions of beauty were quickly abandoned," he said with a rueful smile. He pointed to the distant valley across the plains. "But you can still see the river from here."

Resting her hands on the sill, Margaret rose on her toes and was surprised to catch a glimpse of the river through the gaps between the buildings.

"It is not as wide or as full as it used to be. The canal diverts most of the water to the city but the valley is still quite picturesque and the water is clean as it is upstream to the city."

A quiet breeze blew in and while her hair remained stubbornly pinned in place, his hair ruffled easily in the wind. He looked almost boyish then, approachable and relaxed.

They stood by the window, looking at each other.

"Shall we go see the garden?" she asked before the moment could deepen.

A door at the end of the central passage on the ground floor led to the garden. Standing on the steps, Margaret discovered that there was something magical about an enclosed garden, even a hopelessly abandoned one. She eagerly stepped out and walked around. A quick glance revealed where the flower bed and paths had been laid out originally. The garden was designed with two crossing paths dividing it into four equal-sized quarters.

This morning as he had been showing her the house, she hadn't been able to stop herself from thinking about how unfair it was for women when they married. They moved to a new house, took charge of an unfamiliar household and began a completely different life. But now, standing in the middle of this neglected garden, she experienced the thrill of discovery. Of possibility.

In her mind's eyes, she saw how she wanted the garden to be—paths bordered with a riot of flowers, a bird bath in the small circular intersection, the red brick walls covered with climbing yellow and white roses, maybe even a small arbour tucked into one of the corners. It would be a little secret retreat, shielded from the world by tall walls and accessible only from the house, a place of quiet beauty amid the din and clamour of the city.

She turned around and looked up at the handsome stone-coped house, feeling a slight lifting in her spirits. She had always loved the idea of a home, perhaps because she had never been allowed to truly settle or belong in any one place, be it the fashionable house in Harley Street or the lovely parsonage in Helstone or even the tiny house in Crampton. But this house was like a great blank canvas, waiting for her. It was something tangible that she could work on and make her own.

From the corner of her eye, she saw him standing near the door, his gaze fixed on her. He had been relaxed yet careful with her this morning. He had been observing her and her reaction to the house and to him.

"Did you garden in Helstone?" she heard him ask.

"No."

"I thought so," he said, finally stepping into the yard. "You don't seem like you would enjoy such hard work."

"I do not mind doing hard work," Margaret said, upset with his implication. She remembered the day when she had spent hours standing in the sweltering little kitchen as she ironed the curtains to prepare for _his_ visit. "I may not have done gardening but I have done housework. I can think of few things harder than that."

He was silent for several moments. "Let us go inside," he said eventually. "I believe Grimsby must be eager to show you the household accounts."

After guiding her to the front sitting room, he left for his office at the mill. "I have some work that I need to complete. I will be in the office, if you need me."

* * *

In the evening, Margaret changed into an evening dress and hurried to the dining room.

After John had left for the mill, Margaret had gone to the kitchen to familiarise herself with the household. She had spoken at length with the cook and together they had established a weekly menu, with Margaret naturally suggesting a few dishes that were Southern in origin. If the cook had been uncertain, she had not shown it and had assured Margaret was it would not be a problem.

She spent time with Grimsby next. After an hour of pouring over the books with him, it had become clear that the old man had managed very well without any direction from his employer. John had given only two explicit instructions: one, that things be on time and two, that things be tidy. The rest he had left to his trusted butler to manage. The account books and inventory were in perfect order and it hadn't been much of a surprise to discover that Grimsby had already anticipated most of the new items that would be needed. In the end, they had decided that she would review the accounts and the inventory on a weekly basis.

As for the house, Margaret did not want to immediately start decorating the rooms. She thought it ought to happen gradually.

Her real surprise had come when Grimsby had brought her a tray full of calling cards. The cards were from the wives of other mill owners. They clearly hadn't wasted a single day and were eager to welcome her into their circle. Margaret had met most of them at the dinner party and at the wedding reception. Some of the ladies had seemed nice but the rest, Margaret did not imagine she would have anything in common with them. But it would be unforgivably rude to not respond, so Margaret had spent the afternoon penning them notes.

Descending the staircase, she found Grimsby in the hall outside the dining room, adjusting the wick of a lamp.

"Has the dinner been served?" she asked.

"Yes, Mrs Thornton." He picked up the lamp and Margaret wondered just long it would take before she got used to the new title. "Mr Thornton arrived a few minutes ago. He is in the dining room."

The dining table was large enough to seat twelve people comfortable and could be extended to seat another four. Tonight it was set for just two. A small array of dishes were set on the table, each covered with silver-domed lids.

John was standing by the window, peering outside. He turned around when she entered followed by the butler. She paused as their gazes caught and held.

It was such a domestic tableau, she realised with a slight blush.

Grimsby went to place the extra lamp on a side table but before he could return to seat her, John was already helping her.

"Thank you, Grimsby," he said, sitting down. He removed the lid from one of the dishes. "We will serve ourselves."

Grimsby offered a small nod and withdrew with silent efficiency.

After taking breakfast and touring the house with him, Margaret was beginning to feel less awkward in his presence but his desire for privacy caused a dismaying tide of scarlet to sweep over her face.

Margaret served the food while he poured wine into the glasses. Although Margaret had planned a simple meal, the cook had done an admirable job. The dinner consisted of a fragrant light soup, beautifully cooked veal dressed in herb sauce, a side dish of buttered vegetables and steaming apple pudding.

As they ate, the rich aromas and the occasional soft clinking of silverware on plates filled the room.

"Margaret."

She looked up.

"Are we to always eat in silence?"

"What would you like to talk about?" she asked.

"What do you talk to your father about?" he instead asked her. "Or your friends?"

"I am not really sure," she said truthfully. "I never had to think about it. We just talk. Topics suggest themselves naturally."

"And when you are with strangers?"

"I usually talk about inconsequential things to keep the conversation going," she replied. "I often know them enough to have a general idea of what subjects might interest them."

She saw a faint smile touch his lips at that.

"And what subjects interest you?" he asked.

Right now, the subject that held her interest was him. He never talked about himself, but surely, it was not unreasonable for her to wish to know her husband. Other than the public facts of his life and the little information that Fanny had provided, she did not know much about him. She remembered Mr Bell telling her father about his former life, but she had not stayed around to listen, little knowing that one day she would find herself married to him.

Margaret could not think of a subtle way to ask him. After mentally debating a variety of questions, she decided to be blunt. "I would like to know about you."

He seemed a bit surprised. He leaned back in his chair and was quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on his wine glass.

"I am not a gentleman," he said, at last, looking at her, "not in the way the word is usually applied. Neither was my father. He owned a prosperous factory but made some bad investments. He speculated wildly to recover it, failed and then killed himself. We sold everything to pay back the creditor. I was taken out of school and worked as a draper's boy and later as an accountant. I managed Marlborough Mills for some time before buying it and this house. My mother passed away before we could move here."

Her eyes widened as she tried to take it all in. She could only imagine the story beneath the facts. He must have been fourteen or fifteen when it happened.

"I am sorry, I had no id—"

"It was a long time ago," he said as if it was of no importance.

But she could tell it was. His matter-of-fact recitation attested to it however, she knew that this was not the time to probe into the details. Nothing in their short relationship warranted it. But she was still quite curious. She wanted to know the man he was now.

"Would you call yourself a hard master?" she asked.

"Yes," he admitted. "It is the only way to run a disciplined and efficient workforce. My workers expect me to be hard, but truthful. I don't apologise to anyone about the wages I pay or how I run Marlborough Mills. I always act in the interest of the mill and I make no secret of it."

She remained silent, letting him continue. "I do not lie, but I do not always share everything I know or I would never be able to negotiate. I try to be fair in all my dealing. However, I do not believe in charity or philanthropy and," he paused a moment, "I should have told you this before, Margaret, I am not a religious man."

He was studying her to see her reaction. Margaret couldn't say why she was not very shocked by the admission. She supposed her father's dissent, Fred's conversion to Roman Catholicism and Nicholas' heretical views had utterly inured her to the subject. She had gone to the local church a few times and had been surprised by the dismal attendance. The city seemed too busy to think about God. And John typified the city for her.

While she couldn't help his lack of faith, she was unwilling to give up the Christian charity that she had practised all her life.

"I would like to continue visiting Princeton," she stated. "I am friends with many families that live there and I want to help them."

He stared at her as he seemed to consider how to respond. "You are well aware what I think about it. Charity does not solve anything in the long run. But if you feel this is what you need to do, I shall not stop you."

Margaret hadn't realised how tense she was until she felt herself relax at his answer. She was tempted to point out that charity had saved Boucher's children from starvation but she did not wish to renew the argument tonight. It was more important to her that she could continue her work.

"Architecture is an interest of yours," she asked, changing the subject.

"Yes. I was an accountant for Richard Lane for a while. He's the architect who designed the Concert Hall and most of the municipal buildings. I quickly became interested in it."

"Why did you not take it up?" she asked perplexed.

"You mean why didn't I take up a more gentlemanly profession?" he asked with a chiding smile.

"I—" Margaret lowered her gaze, embarrassed by the tactless implication of her question.

"I had always been interested in manufacturing and industry," he said. "As for designing buildings, even Lane admits that Milton affords little scope for architectural display."

She remembered the plan of the mill that she had seen in his office. "Did you design the mill?"

"Some of the new enclosures and the smaller buildings. Design is too lofty a word. It is purely utilitarian, I assure you."

"Do you draw?" Margaret couldn't help asking.

The question made him smile. "I can scratch out a few technical drawings but nothing else."

At her urging, he told her about the layout of the mill and how it ensured safe and efficient production. When she asked about the wheel, he claimed to have installed it because it made good business sense.

"There is no immediate profit in it," he admitted. "But the long-term benefits far outweigh the expense."

"And it helps the workers in the long term as well," she felt compelled to point out.

"That is incidental. If my workers are healthy, they work for me longer. Their children work for me longer. It is not very hard to see the profit in that."

"Then why don't more mill masters install them," she asked.

"Because they refuse to see beyond the immediate pounds, shillings and pence."

"No," she shook her head. "It is because they do not care about their workers."

"I did not install the wheel for moral or charitable reasons."

"But you must care about your workers to consider a wheel in the first place," she said.

"No. My objective was good business and better productivity—"

"—which was achieved through the well-being of your workers. Good business and moral duty can go together."

"It is not always so simple," he insisted.

Margaret let the subject drop, but she didn't like it. It was not the first time that they had disagreed on the matter and she wondered if they would ever find a common ground.

When they finished dinner, he went to the side table to pick up the lamp. He seemed to deliberate something as he brought it to her, his steps slow and methodical.

She watched him with growing apprehension, worried about what he might say or demand. Her disquiet must have communicated itself to him because he looked up and paused.

"Margaret," he said slowly. "Did I frighten you last night?"

Margaret couldn't bring herself to look at him, embarrassed by the memories the question brought up.

An uncomfortable silence passed before she admitted, "Yes."

"I am sorry," he said. The words were sincere but stiff as if he was not used to apologising or behaving in a way that needed apologising. "I should not have spoken to you the way I did. I should have been more considerate."

She acknowledged with a small nod.

"You must know that I would never hurt you," he continued.

"Yes."

He seemed to be waiting for her to say something, but she did not wish to talk about last night. "What time do you take breakfast?" she asked instead.

"Half past six," he replied. "You don't need to wake that early."

"I like to rise when the day begins," she said.

He smiled at that. "All right. But sleep in tomorrow. I will ask the staff to not disturb you."

It felt strange to have him care about her well-being and look after her comfort. She was surprised at how completely he had overturned her fears about today. She knew he was being exceptionally careful with her, allowing her to relax around him. She wasn't certain if he would always be like this. Their opinions were bound to clash sooner or later but at least today, they had managed a relatively peaceful co-existence.

But he was right. She _was_ tried, she hadn't been able to get much sleep in the last few days. The preparation for the wedding, the anxiety about the marriage and the events of last night had worn her out physically and emotionally, and the idea of slipping into a warm bed sounded heavenly.

She agreed to the suggestion with a nod.

Taking her elbow, he guided her to the stairs. "Go ahead," he said, giving her the lamp. "Sleep well."

"Good night." She climbed the stairs, aware of his gaze following her till she went out of sight.

* * *

John went to his study and shut the door. Closing his eyes, he rested his forehead against the cool wood and let out a controlled breath.

Turning around, he loosened his cravat and walked to the sideboard. He poured a brandy and held the snifter in his palm, letting it warm in his hand. He finally sat down in his chair to ponder his marriage and his wife.

It was difficult to admit but he knew he had behaved badly last night. He had assumed a great many things and had been taken in by her self-possession and poise.

It was a remarkable thing in someone so young. He couldn't imagine many young women uncomplainingly taking on the kind of responsibilities that she had. She had gone house-hunting on her own in a strange new town, she had set up and run her father's household. She had even done housework! In his mind, he had always pictured her sitting with a book, too studious and engrossed with her reading, too lovely and refined to do any menial work. But she had done it.

And she had again taken responsibility for her actions during the riot by agreeing to marry him. No one who saw her at the wedding would have believed that she had been vehemently opposed to the marriage.

Her self-possession made it easy to forget that she was just nineteen and in his impatience and desire, he had convinced himself that she would be ready for this too. He had tried to give her enough time to refuse him. He had assumed that if she had any objections she would be sure to say it. But she had just stood there, nervous but not unwilling.

He knew that she was not entirely indifferent to him. He had noted enough evidence of it and he had hoped that she would be willing to give marital intimacy a chance.

But when she had finally stopped him, he had behaved like a boor. He had bullied her and terrified her. He had become too used to getting what he wanted. Too certain of his opinions and judgements. He had understood belatedly that she used her self-possession to hide all her fears and uncertainties. And he, of all people, should have seen that. His mother had been the same. It was an infuriating but sobering realisation.

He knew that Margaret was not convinced about the marriage. She had a mind of her own and her own sense of morality but she had unknowingly ended up proposing a true marriage of convenience, one based on friendship and occasional intimacy. It would be eminently respectable. And bloodless.

He was aware that his feelings for her were growing uncomfortably complex. She was becoming rather real to him, he realised, brave and vulnerable in ways he had not imagined.

He _wanted_ to possess her, but not as a pretty object as she had angrily suggested, but in ways far more elusive and difficult. Which was why he had to disabuse her of any platonic notion. He was not going to pretend that this was a marriage of convenience. It had never been that for him. But whether this would ever be the kind of marriage he wanted, he had ceded that decision to her.

He knew he would have to be patient with her, give her time to get used to her new life, and to know him, if that is what she wanted. He had already told her more than he had ever told anyone and in agreeing to let her continue her charity work, he had already conceded a lot more than he had ever planned.

He was not a patient man. He had no idea how long she would take to accept him. He could not claim to understand her reasons, but he would respect them and he would wait.

Hearing the clinking of plates, John went to the dining room and found Grimsby tidying up.

"Sir?"

"Please inform the maid that Mrs Thornton is not to be disturbed tomorrow morning."

"That will not be a problem, sir," Grimsby told him. "Mrs Thornton dismissed her maid."

John stared for a moment and then a curious smile touched his lips. "Why did she dismiss her?"

"The girl talks".

There was a short silence as he contemplated the sparse words. He didn't want the going-ons in his house to become the tittle-tattle of Milton. He wondered if this girl had been the one to spread the story about the riot. If so, he couldn't say he was surprised that Margaret dismissed her. She would never countenance such behaviour.

"Mrs Thornton gave Jane full wages for the month as recompense," Grimsby added.

John couldn't help a quiet laugh. It was too generous and just like Margaret.

Returning to his study, John felt some of his earlier tension ease away. It was hardly appropriate but the thought of her dismissing a servant on her very first day as the mistress of the house made him smile.

It suddenly occurred to him that he had been waiting for this. Perhaps, Fanny had been right. He had been by himself for too long.

And even though Margaret was sleeping in a separate room and in a different bed, for the first time in a long while, he did not feel alone.

* * *

 **A/N** : Hey, I am really sorry about how long it has taken me to update. The last few weeks have been insane. But I am SO glad I have something ready for Christmas.

About the last chapter: I know I have lost a great many of you with that wedding night scene. I am sorry that it wasn't what you expected but I think it is consistent with the John and the story that I am writing. I do not want to provide a commentary about what's happening in the story but I want to make two points and then I will shut up.

a) John, in this story, is very different from the canon John. One, he is a very confident man and two, he is not in love with Margaret—yet. I have tried to highlight these two aspects from the very first chapter and it explains why he behaves the way he does. I don't want to make him into a villain or an anti-hero. I just want to write him as someone who makes the kind of mistake that a very smart and confident person would make in such a situation.

b) Someone asked me if I will keep the story T-rated and I thought that perhaps others too might be worried about it. The answer is yes. The story will remain T-rated but I do plan to write about the consummation and their subsequent sex life. I have no problem with M-rated stories (the superb _Taking her there with me_ by Redizded comes to mind) or M-rated chapters in T-rated stories. But with this story, I am more interested in exploring the emotional details rather than the explicit details. But fair warning, emotional details can often be sexier than physical details ;)

I can't begin to tell you how wonderful and immensely rewarding it was to read your incredibly perceptive and encouraging comments. As for negative reviews, I do not mind them—it keeps me honest and forces me to consider my decisions thoroughly. So I want to thank everyone who has taken out the time to write what they think. Without your responses and encouragement, writing fanfiction can be very lonely.

And with that I will shut up. As always, please let me know what you think. I have stayed with Margaret's point of view for most of this chapter and switched to John's only towards the end. It seemed unfair to not give him a voice at this point.

Hope you enjoyed the chapter and wish you all happy holidays!

Lots of hugs and love,

SQ


	7. The Lunch

**-THE LUNCH-**

Over the course of the next few days, Margaret found herself quite busy.

Newly married to one of the most prominent citizens in Milton, Margaret was expected to receive the society ladies for tea and take part in the social scene. Although she wasn't very excited at the prospect, she was willing to do the proper thing and hoped that the experience would prove interesting. Or, at the very least, wouldn't be too tiresome.

The visits also meant that a few additions and changes would need to be made to the household. First, a new lady's maid had to be hired. After interviewing five candidates, Margaret selected a girl called Martha. She was a pleasant girl, who could read and write and had been trained in hairdressing. A parlour maid was also needed, which Grimsby took care of, although he deferred the final decision to Margaret.

As for the house, although she did not think there was anything wrong with the rooms, they had a decidedly masculine character. There were no decorations, nothing to soften the austere look. So the first thing she did was order fresh flowers and house plants. It was surprising how a few flowers and carefully placed plants could change the look of a house. The large black-and-white tiled entrance hall appeared a lot less intimidating with the addition of a row of lush palms and the rooms looked more welcoming with vases of bright, fragrant flowers. She would eventually have to make a trip to the furniture store but for now, what she really wanted to do was restore the garden. The ever-efficient Grimsby had arranged for a gardener to turn the soil and prepare it and Margaret could scarcely wait.

However, in the midst of all these changes, Margaret did not want to neglect her old friends.

Neither Bessy nor Nicholas had attended the wedding. Bessy had been too ill and Nicholas had been too upset about the way the strike had ended that Margaret had not really expected him to turn up at an event where all the mill masters were certain to gather.

"Goodness!" Bessy exclaimed when Margaret deposited a long strip of lace in Bessy's lap.

Bessy had joked that since she would never have a wedding of her own, she would like a small token from Margaret's. Margaret had saved a sample of the lace that had been used in her gown to bring to her friend.

"I hadn't something so grand as this in mind when I asked," Bessy said, touching the delicate lace with great care. "What'll I do with it?"

Smiling, Margaret took the lace and tied it around Bessy's head as a band to keep the straggling locks of hair from falling on her face. "There."

"All right," Bessy grinned. "I'll be a princess with fancy lace in my hair." She broke into giggles but her merriment turned into painful coughs.

Margaret immediately picked up the cup and held the water to her lips. Bessy took a long and feverish draught and then fell back and shut her eyes.

"Thornton then, eh?" she said when she was able to speak. "I'll have to watch my tongue now. No more talking 'bout his hard ways or his fine form."

It seemed only yesterday that they had laughed and puzzled over the invitation that Margaret and her father had received to dine at Marlborough Mills. Bessy had been of the firm opinion that her friend must have caught Mr Thornton's eye. Margaret had completely dismissed the idea and had insisted that it was simply a courtesy extended to her father as a close friend of Mr Bell. Bessy had then proceeded to tell her about the very eligible Mr Thornton and had advised Margaret to get smarter clothes.

Margaret got up and found some water and soaked her handkerchief in it.

"Thornton allowed you to come here?" Bessy asked, fixing her with a curious gaze.

"I do not need anyone's permission," Margaret said as she laid the wet cloth on Bessy's forehead. "But yes, Mr Thornton knows I am here."

Bessy shut her eyes and allowed the cool wetness to soothe her.

"He must be a good husband," Bessy said after a while, her eyes still closed.

Margaret remained silent. She did not know if he was a good husband or not. But in this, he had been surprisingly accommodating and she was truly thankful.

"Where's Nicholas?" Margaret asked.

"I don't know." Bessy opened her eyes. "He's been brought so low by the way the strike's gone. He thought they stood a good chance this time."

"Has everyone gone back to work?"

Bessy nodded. "They lost their spirit after the violence at Marlborough Mills. Father's so angry with the men who broke the strike, he. . . I wish I knew where he was." Tears welled up in her eyes. "I've never seen him like this, Margaret. I'm worried about what he might do—"

"Hush," Margaret took the girl's hand. "He is a strong man. He will be fine."

Almost as if in answer to their worries, the rickety door swung open and Nicholas staggered in and immediately slumped into a nearby chair.

"Father!" Bessy exclaimed from her bed.

At her cry, Nicholas raised his head and squinted at the room. He narrowed his eyes as his gaze fell on Margaret.

He suddenly let out a humourless laugh. "Missus Thornton," he said in an exaggerated, mocking voice.

Margaret realised with faint alarm that he had been drinking. He wasn't completely intoxicated but he had drunk enough to make him a little mean. Nicholas understood that it wasn't her choice to marry Mr Thornton but her problems must seem trivial to him when the strike that he and so many men had planned for months and pinned all their future hopes on had failed so miserably.

"Don't be vexed with him," Bessy pleaded.

"I thought I should not have seen you again," he said to Margaret.

"Why not?" Margaret asked. "I am still your friend."

"Does Thornton know you're here?" he asked gruffly.

"Yes."

He looked at her doubtfully before turning away to stare at the wall.

"Have you found work?" Margaret asked.

He responded with a grim chuckle. "Slickson'll let me work at his mill, when he cuts off his right hand—not before and not after."

"But you'll get work in other mills, won't you?" Margaret asked. "Everybody knows you are a good weaver."

"I am a Union man," he said. "None of the masters will take a Union man."

The bleakness in his expression silenced Margaret.

"Where were you all morning?" Bessy asked. "I was worried."

"Boucher's wife wanted to speak with me. She was raving and raging to know where her dunder-headed brute of a chap was, as if I'd know—as if he were fit to be ruled by me. The damned fool, who has put his foot in all our plans! And Thornton—" he turned toward Margaret, his anger suddenly bubbling over. "First he brings in the Irish that led to the riot and ruined the strike. Even Slickson would have waited a while, but it's a word and a blow with Thornton. And now, when the Union would have thanked him for hunting down Boucher, what does he do? He says that he won't press charges. They'll not get employment, they're well known. That's punishment enough, he says. I thought he'd have more guts," he sneered.

"Mr Thornton is right." Margaret said and before Nicholas could interrupt, she continued, "I am not saying it because he is my husband. I know you're angry with Boucher but even you must see that further punishment would look like revenge."

Nicholas turned away from her, his anger suddenly deflated. "It's all over because of weak men like Boucher."

"Not everyone is as strong as you, Nicholas. To last out the strike for so long. You must comfort your men, you can . . ." she trailed off when she saw him shake his head.

"You're not one of us, lass," he said wearily. "You got no part in this. Go home and be useful to your husband."

Even knowing that Nicholas had not really meant the words and that they were spoken in despair, the words stung.

Margaret was no longer sure where she belonged.

It was true that she was not one of them. She was a gentleman's daughter and far, far above in station than those who lived in Princeton. But she had been able to bridge the gap and despite their initial scepticism, she had been able to establish a human connection with the workers. But now after her marriage, the workers regarded her as one with the masters. On her way to meet Bessy, she had stopped to speak with a few families on Francis Street. Their expression had been guarded; it was clear they believed that she had sided with the masters in the strike and her marriage only seemed to confirm their belief. They thought she belonged with _them_.

The irony was that she did not at all feel like she belonged with the mill owners and the upper class in Milton. She had been born and raised in a society that considered it vulgar and ill-bred to even talk about money, let alone mingle with people in mercantile occupation. But she was slowly coming to realise that the old way of life was rapidly changing. All the distinctions that Aunt Shaw had taken great care to impress upon her and Edith were no longer clearly distinguishable. The South with its aristocratic counties was being viewed as a relic of a bygone era whereas the North with its industrial counties and Milton, in particular, was where the future was.

But while she was able to intellectually understand these things, she was still a long way from emotionally adjusting to it. The South was her home, it was the world she understood, whereas the North was still foreign to her. She did not know what to make of the manufacturers, the industrialists, the professional men. She had not liked many of the mill masters that she had met at the dinner party. It wasn't that they openly talked about money but they seemed to exhibit the worst tendencies that accompanied the pursuit of money: greed, dishonesty and selfishness.

The wives of the mill owners were another matter altogether. Most of them wanted to ape the fashionable ladies in London. They shopped, gossiped and entertained. And they were eager to welcome Margaret into their idle world.

Her mornings were busy receiving calls from these women. They were full of advice on how to decorate the house, what wallpapers and furnishings to buy, which dressmaker to go to and where to shop. Most of it was harmless and well-intentioned. They were surprised when she told them that she didn't have any plans to strip the house bare and completely redecorate it.

The women were also curious about her supposed whirlwind romance with the reclusive mill master. The young married women, especially, were rather eager to know how she had succeeded where others had failed.

"Fanny told us it was love at first sight."

Margaret nearly choked on her tea.

Mrs Collingbrook, her latest caller, gave her a knowing smile.

Margaret could not understand how anyone who had witnessed them argue at the dinner party could entertain such an absurd notion. She supposed people would believe anything but she would dearly like to have a few words with Fanny.

"I know it is dreadfully impolite, but we are friends, are we not?" Mrs Collingbrook continued.

Margaret gave a cautious nod.

The young matron leaned forward. "Have you decided where you will take your wedding trip?"

Despite her effort to remain polite, Margaret felt a blush spread across her face _and_ a scowl tug on her lips. "Mr Thornton is quite busy. It is too soon after the strike."

"Oh, poor you." She patted her hand in sympathy. "This strike has been such dreadful business," she sighed. "Well. When you do take your wedding trip, you must insist on Paris. There is no place better for shopping. I shall give you names of all the best dressmakers and perfumers and jewellers." She held out her hand to display a large diamond bracelet.

Margaret made a show of admiring the oversized band.

"Divine, isn't it? English designs simply do not compare."

The thought of spending another moment in the company of these women sent Margaret into a full-scale panic. She feared she would go mad if she had to entertain another such visitor.

If Mrs Collingbrook was the most annoying of her callers, the Latimers were the most awkward.

Mrs Latimer and her daughter, Ann, came visiting not fifteen minutes after Mr Collingbrook had left. Margaret remembered Ann quite well from the dinner party. Pretty, blonde and tall, Ann had recently returned from a finishing school in Switzerland and Margaret had the uneasy feeling that the Latimers had hoped to match their daughter with John. John had certainly seemed interested. She remembered how he had pointedly turned away from her after their argument and spent the rest of the evening talking to Ann.

The visit was uncomfortable for both parties. Ann said very little and spent the entire time studying Margaret with cool grey eyes. It was left to Mrs Latimer and Margaret to make conversation. The older woman was curious about her and though she was polite and careful, Margaret knew that neither the mother nor the daughter believed the love story that Mrs Collingbrook had blindly accepted.

As soon as the visit concluded, Margaret dashed off to meet Fanny.

In the weeks leading to the marriage, Margaret had been unable to take a great deal of pleasure in Fanny's company. There had been too much crowding her mind. But now, she was surprised at how much she looked forward to visiting her sister-in-law. Fanny had been advised to not travel or move about, so Margaret would visit her as often as she could and keep her company. And Fanny was great company. With her, Margaret could be young and carefree. And God knew, she needed that. She was starting to become weary of this continual call upon her for strength and patience.

"I didn't say love at first sight," Fanny defended herself.

They were seated in the private sitting room upstairs. Fanny being Fanny had abandoned all formality with Margaret and the Watson butler, following his mistress' lead, had stopped announcing Margaret and after greeting her warmly would simply inform her where Fanny could be found.

"What did you say?" Margaret asked as the maid came in with a pot of fresh tea and a plate full of tarts.

Fanny waited until the maid had left the room. "I just said it was delightfully quick," she said. "What else did Edna ask?"

"It's not worth repeating. The woman is ridiculous," Margaret said as she sat down to pour tea for both of them.

"She is silly," Fanny agreed.

"They are all silly but they are quite clever too. Their conversation reminded me of the old game where the players had to introduce as many nouns as they could into a sentence."

"What do you mean?" Fanny asked amused.

"They took nouns that are evidence of wealth—housekeepers, under-gardeners, extent of glass, valuable lace, diamonds, and all such things—and each one formed her speech so as to bring them all in. In the prettiest accidental manner possible, of course," Margaret said, handing her the cup.

Fanny laughed.

"What did you tell the Latimers?" Margaret asked, devoting a great deal of attention to stirring sugar into her cup.

"The Latimers? Why do you ask?"

"Mrs Latimer and Ann called today."

"Oh . . ." Fanny hesitated just long enough to make Margaret uncomfortable. "I may have encouraged Ann," she admitted with an apologetic grimace. "But believe me nothing ever was going to come of it," she hastened to add.

"How do you know?" Margaret asked trying to keep her voice non-committal.

"Margaret," Fanny waited until Margaret met her gaze and then fixed her with a reproving look. "If John wanted to marry Ann, or any of the other girls, he would have done it long ago."

"Alright."

"As for the rest," Fanny continued, "it is natural for them to be intrigued by you. I am sure they do not know what to make of you."

Margaret supposed that Fanny was right, but she did not like the unnecessary scrutiny that the marriage invited. She wondered how long it would take for Milton society to leave her alone.

"We received an invitation from Mrs Hampers to dine with them next week," Margaret told her. "I don't think I have met her."

"She was away at the time of the wedding and now that she is back, she will definitely want to meet you."

"Wonderful," Margaret grumbled.

"Oh, you will love the old lady," Fanny assured her. "This will be the first time you and John will be attending as a couple. I wish I could accept. I will expect a full report. And do wear the rose-gold gown," Fanny instructed. "And scarlet flowers. They will look glorious in your dark hair."

Margaret gave her a playful salute. "Yes, captain. Anything else?"

"Try this one," Fanny indicated a pastry on her plate.

Margaret picked up the small puff pastry. "Is it a new recipe?" she asked as she bit into the crème-filled centre. "Oh, this is good."

"I cannot have enough of them," Fanny said popping one into her mouth and licking her fingers clean. "I should hire a French pastry chef," she mused.

"Only three nouns, Fanny. I am sure you can do better."

Fanny threw a cushion at her.

Grinning, Margaret picked up the cushion and came around the sofa to place it behind Fanny. On an impulse, Margaret pressed her hand against Fanny's arm. "Thank you."

Fanny looked at her a moment before smiling back, seeming to understand.

They both turned to face the door when they heard someone walk in. It was Mr Watson. "Ladies," he greeted them.

"Won't you join us?" Fanny asked.

"And ruin such a charming tableau?" he asked.

Fanny rolled her eyes, although she couldn't quite suppress a grin. "Are you going to another meeting?"

He nodded. "But I won't be long," he promised.

Margaret watched as he walked in the direction of the bedroom, presumably to dress when she realised with surprise that the Watsons shared the same bedroom. Margaret had always thought that married couples kept separate rooms. She knew that Aunt Shaw and General Shaw had different bedrooms and, vague as her childhood memory was, so did her mother and father. She had never contemplated an arrangement where husbands and wives shared the same room and slept in the same bed every day. She wondered if Edith and Captain Lennox did too. She could not imagine her conventional cousin agreeing to such an arrangement. And yet such an arrangement did not seem very shocking when it came to the Watsons. In fact, it seemed quite natural, given how utterly comfortable they were in each other's presence.

Her thoughts immediately turned to her own marriage and she wondered if she would ever be able to live in the same room with John. He was such a masculine presence, with his deep voice, his tall stature and utter self-possession. The thought of sharing a bedroom, the most private of spaces, with him was unnerving and yet she couldn't seem to stop herself from imagining what it would be like. Waking up, preparing for bed, resting, sleeping, dreaming—doing it all with him as witness.

She found that she couldn't picture him living in her bedroom; hers was a feminine room, luxurious and all soft angles. And he was . . . well, _John_.

It suddenly occurred to her that she had not yet seen his room. It was the one room in the house that she hadn't ventured into. It wasn't that she afraid that he would misinterpret it as an invitation if she were to visit. As he had promised her on their wedding night, he hadn't made any advance at her or brought up the subject. However, she was very aware of his expectation.

They talked more easily now, although the subjects tended to be neutral. She was surprised to discover that she looked forward to their dinners together. The meal would go on for more than an hour and became longer with each passing day as they chatted and ate in privacy. She would tell him about her progress with Darwin's _Journal_ and he would fill in the gaps for her, explaining some of the scientific terms and ideas that she was unfamiliar with. At his urging, she tried keeping an open mind about where Darwin was likely to lead with his meticulous observations.

Despite the startling new ideas suggested in the book, Margaret was nonetheless fascinated by all the unusual animals and birds and plants that Darwin had described and marvelled at the strange lands that the _Beagle_ took him. Margaret had never heard about some of the places mentioned in the book. Enjoying her enthusiasm, John had brought out a large atlas from the library and spread it on the dining table so that she could look at the places that Darwin had described so vividly.

Thinking upon that night, Margaret had to admit that it had been rather . . . sweet of him.

"What are you smiling about?" Fanny asked, watching her.

"Just something you once said," Margaret said, still smiling.

* * *

When Margaret had told Edith that John was a very busy man, she had not really understood just how busy. But now after more than a week of living with him, she was beginning to understand how impossible his schedule was. She had never known anyone who worked so much. He would wake up at six, have his breakfast at half past and would leave for the mill immediately after. He would occasionally return to the house during the day to collect papers or some files before going to his second warehouse located across the town or for his various meetings. He would return home at seven for dinner but instead of retiring after the meal, he would go to his study to "complete some pending work." Margaret had not realised how late he stayed up, until, one night, when she had heard him enter the master suite and go to his room. It had been half-past eleven. The next night, lying in her bed she had waited to hear what time he would retire. That night, it had been quarter past midnight.

Margaret failed to understand how could one man, even with managers and clerks working for him, have so much work. The only time she was sure to see him was breakfast and supper. She wondered if he took lunch at his club. Many men preferred to eat at their clubs when they were in town. She hoped he did. She did not want to change his schedule but she couldn't help worry a little. Such a relentless schedule couldn't possibly be good for him.

Margaret was reading in the library one afternoon when John came into the room. Looking up, she saw him pause when he found her on the settee, a book open on her drawn-up knees, a cup of tea in one hand and a small plate next to her.

"I came to get some documents," he explained.

Margaret watched him as he leaned over the table and sorted through a small stack of papers to find the ones that he needed.

"Will you not eat lunch?" she asked, setting her cup on the table.

"I don't have time," he said, straightening the pile. "I have a meeting with the factory regulators."

Margaret thought about what he had eaten for breakfast: toast with poached eggs and sausages. That was more than six hours ago and supper wouldn't be in another six. She closed the book. "Please wait." She rose from the settee and slid her feet into her slippers. "I will be back in a moment."

"Margaret, I have—"

She left the room before he could finish the sentence and hastened to the kitchen.

She returned six minutes later with a small tray of sandwiches and pasties, certain that she would find him gone. Gripping the handles of the tray with both hands, she pushed her shoulder against the door.

Miraculously, he was still standing where she had left him, perusing the papers in his hands.

She set the tray on the small table. "Please sit," she said as she placed a couple of sandwiches on a plate. Slowly, he put the papers back on the table and sat down next to her.

She held out the plate for him. He was unusually quiet and still as he stared at the plate, his eyes lowered. "Eat."

He picked up a sandwich.

A maid came in with the tea service. While he ate, Margaret poured the steaming beverage into a cup.

"Why do you not eat lunch?" she asked, handing him the tea.

"I fell out of habit."

"But you must eat something between breakfast and supper," she asked.

"I eat at my club if I happen to be nearby," he said and drained the cup in a few quick swallows.

Somehow she doubted it. He seemed the sort who would not think to eat unless someone put some food in front of him or put it in his schedule. After a quick glance at the empty plate, she grabbed the tongs and picked up one of the pasties from the tray.

He held up a hand. "I have to go—"

Ignoring him, she deposited the pasty on his plate and held out a fork. He looked at her for a moment before obediently taking it from her. Finally settling back a little, he began eating slowly, savouring the spiced meat and caramelised onions.

It was strangely satisfying to get him to stop for a few moments and to make him eat. It was such a wifely thing to do, she realised as she poured him another cup and made one for herself.

"What is that?" he asked after a while, glancing at the remaining éclair on her plate.

She smiled. "It's pain à la duchesse," she replied. Margaret had learned the recipe from her aunt who had picked it up during her travel in France. "We prepared a batch for Fanny. She loves them."

"You have a sweet tooth as well," he commented.

"Oh . . . well, yes," she admitted sheepishly. "Would you like to try it?"

He shook his head. He didn't like sweets. She had noticed that he always took a very small portion of dessert at supper, mostly so that she wouldn't feel awkward eating the course by herself.

"Would it be alright if I send a lunch hamper to your office?" she asked. "Would this time be suitable?"

He nodded as he set the plate aside and finished his tea.

"Thank you for this," he said, smiling and before she could respond, he leaned toward her and gave her a quick kiss on her cheek.

"Don't send the hamper. I will come home for lunch," he said, rising from the settee.

He collected his papers from the table. "I shall see you later," he said and stepped from the room, leaving her rather pleased with herself and as red as a rose.

* * *

 **A/N** : Hey, again, I am really sorry about how long it has taken me to update. The writing has been a bit difficult; I hope the chapter does not disappoint. As most of you have commented, this is a slow burn romance but I hope not _too_ slow. Things will pick up soon. I promise :)

Once again, thank you so much for all your comments and reviews. I cannot tell you how tremendously motivating it is, especially when inspiration is in short supply. As always please do let me know what you think. Is it too slow? Is it okay? Is it good? Bad?

Love,

SQ

 **PS** : Although I do use lines and descriptions from the book, I have borrowed a _lot_ of lines from the novel and the BBC series for the Princeton scene.


	8. The Prince

**-THE PRINCE-**

John stared at the papers in front of him, a frown notched between his brows. He had spent the entire morning trying to organise a production schedule that would allow Marlborough Mills to meet its commitments.

Yesterday evening, he had carefully reviewed the account books with his manager and then reviewed them again later at night in the solitude of his study. A good deal of his capital was locked up in new and expensive machinery and no matter how he much he shifted the numbers in his ledger, the available capital was a lot less than he liked. However, there was nothing to be done about it except keep a close eye for the next few weeks and fulfil the large orders that he had in hand. Once the mill received payment on those orders, it should set the figures back to a comfortable margin.

Since the strike, he had been working the mill at record capacity. The new machines that he had purchased and installed were faster and more efficient and only the most skilled and trained hands were allowed to work on them.

He went through the schedule again. He was certain there were more efficiencies that could be made to the process, but his exhausted mind wasn't seeing them at the moment.

He dropped the quill into the inkwell and got to his feet, collecting his coat on his way out. It was unseasonably warm for early May, but he wasn't complaining. It meant a good and long summer. It meant that people would buy cotton.

He strode out of the mill and headed toward the house, noting on his way that the new shipment of cotton had arrived and was being transferred to the holding room under William's supervision.

John stepped into the entrance hall and closed the front door. He was at once enveloped by the cool, soothing quiet of the house, so peaceful after the sweltering ceaseless roar just outside its door. Closing his eyes, he listened to the silence. The house was quiet, except for the occasional domestic sounds which intensified the drowsy atmosphere—the clatter of a dish from the kitchen, the dull thump of a door closing, the whisper of a servant's voice.

He had never thought of his house as a refuge, a sanctuary from the outside world. It was an alarmingly empty place of which he occupied mere three rooms. But Margaret had taken the emptiness and converted it into a home with nothing more than her presence.

As he slowly made his way through the rooms on the ground floor, searching for his wife, he noticed the small changes that she had made to the house. The heavy over-drapes had been replaced with lace curtains to allow sunlight to filter inside the rooms. The furniture had been slightly rearranged and pulled close together to form snug clusters. A collection of soft cushions and large vases full of flowers, their delicate scent perfuming the air, completed the transformation. Taken together these were small changes but the effect was remarkable.

He looked inside the library, hoping to find her there but the room was empty. He turned around and strolled through the central hall to the back garden, wondering if she was home.

He found Margaret standing in a flood of sunlight, wearing a straw hat to protect her head from the sun. She was dressed in a pretty white muslin frock with a wide blue sash tied behind her in a bow. She looked like a butterfly.

She was listening intently to the old gardener, who was sitting on his haunches and sifting the loam through his fingers. The soil had been turned over and compost had been mixed into it. The air was heavy with the smell of moist earth.

"Yo' ha' to know th' right spot for each flower," he heard the gardener tell her. "Some like shade, some don't," the old man said getting to his feet.

John couldn't hear the rest as they moved to the far side of the garden so he stood by the door, filling his gaze with her. He couldn't see her face, but she had such an expressive way of walking and moving that he could tell she was full of questions and brimming with excitement.

She seemed to have taken to gardening with the same passion with which she approached everything—everything except, of course, their relationship. He fell into wondering what it would be like if she brought all that passion to their marriage. He found that he missed their debates—arguments. They had established a tentative peace by avoiding subjects that were likely to be contentious. It made sense. Their relationship was too fragile to survive the weight of any serious disagreement.

But it was not easy, this half-cautious, half-curious circling around each other. He knew he had only himself to blame but he wondered if she would have made any effort at all, if it were left to her. He was too busy during the day to think about it, but at night when she sat across him, all he could think was how tempting she was and how long she would need.

He saw the gardener pick up a stick lying nearby and after stabbing it into the soil, pull it out and give it to Margaret to look at while he continued his explanation. At the end of the lecture, Margaret lifted her head, made a comment and smiled widely.

John stepped into the garden. Sensing movement, Margaret turned her head in his direction. She looked surprised at his sudden appearance. He rarely came to the house during the day, unless it was to collect some document or files and lunch was not for another hour.

"How is the garden coming along?" he asked when he reached them.

She gave him a curious look. "Quite well," she said. "Newton thinks we should be ready to plant this week."

"Aye. I'll get th' saplings and th' roots from the nursery," the old man added. After casting a final assessing glance around the garden, he said, "I'll be goin'." He doffed his cap at them. "Master. Missus."

They watched as he placed his shovel and tools in his wheelbarrow and steered it through the garden door.

"Is it going to be a rose garden?" he asked once they were alone.

"It will mostly be roses," she said, "but we will be planting other flowers as well. Newton suggested that we grow shrubs and flowers together to throw the flowers in relief."

"And have you decided where you will plant the flowers?"

"Yes," she nodded brightly. "We'll be growing the damask roses here." She pointed at the wall with the stick. "It will protect the blooms from the wind. And here we'll plant a thick row of old blush and another row of alba and china rose there. The verbena and geraniums will go over there. And—" She turned around and walked down the path, her sash dancing behind her. He followed after her, helplessly charmed. "—and the delphiniums on this end. We will plant sombreuil and sweetbriar along the walls and teach them to climb. We might grow asters and veronicas later." She turned to face him. "I am thinking of adding a small arbour near the wall on that side. It should offer a good view of the garden. We can easily train the ramblers over it. It should look quite pretty when the flowers are in bloom."

"You have it all planned out," he said.

"It is all Newton's idea," she said. "Most of my suggestions turned out to be impractical. I had not considered how cold the winters are up here. We will have to forgo dahlias and some of the hot-house varieties."

"Do you plan to garden yourself?"

"Eventually. But I am afraid I will undo Newton's work with my blundering. I hardly know anything about it. In Helstone, we had someone from the village come over to tend to our garden so I never paid any attention to it." She fell silent, frowning slightly as if she couldn't believe her oversight.

"Tell me about Helstone," he said.

"Helstone?" she repeated, surprised by his question.

"Is it a village or a town?"

"Oh, only a hamlet," she answered. "I don't think I could call it a village at all. There is the church and a few houses near it on the green—cottages, rather—with roses growing all over them."

He smiled. "It sounds like a village in a tale rather than real life."

She looked at him to see if he intended the comment as a sarcasm and upon finding no hint of mockery, returned his smile. "And so it is," she said. "Helstone is like a village in a poem. In one of Tennyson's poems. And the parsonage is the most beautiful that I know of. . ." Her eyes took on a faintly faraway look as she remembered the place. "There are great trees standing all about it, with their branches making a deep shade of rest even at noonday. At places, the turf is as soft and fine as velvet and sometimes quite lush. And then in other parts, there are billowy ferns—whole stretches of fern, some in the green shadow, some with long streaks of golden sunlight lying on them." She was silent for a moment and then she returned to the present with a rueful smile. "I don't think I can put its charm into words."

He wanted to disagree, but he remained silent, encouraging her to continue.

"I could scarcely wait for father to take me back for the summers—even if it was for a few weeks," she said eagerly. "I loved going on walks near the forest and meeting all its people. Or sometimes just lying on the heather all noon doing nothing."

As she spoke, his mind easily conjured a vision of Margaret sleeping under the shade of a tree with tall green grass swaying around her in the breeze.

"How old were you when you went to London?" he asked.

"Nine," she replied.

"You couldn't have liked London, not after Helstone," he said.

She nodded. "I was miserable the first few weeks. I remember crying myself to sleep on my first night. We were not allowed to go out at all. We were always up in the nursery. It was such a dark and dim room. And the nurse—so austere and ceremonious. She was terribly particular about clean hands and torn frocks."

"Torn frocks?" he asked amused, trying to picture Margaret as a little girl.

"Oh, yes," she said, tossing him an impish look, forgetting to be self-conscious in his presence. "You have no idea the kind of mischief little girls can get up to."

"I have a sister," he reminded her. His image of the grown-up Margaret resting on the heather dissolved away and he saw a little girl running wild in the forest with dark hair flying behind her, climbing trees, jumping into puddles, picking up fights—he wouldn't put it past her. He found himself smiling approvingly. "You must have been quite a handful as a child."

She laughed softly in acknowledgement, shaking her head at her childhood self. He saw a dimple tease at the corner of her mouth.

"Were you happy in London?" he asked.

"Yes. I had a wonderful time there. We had an excellent governess and masters. It was fun growing up with a sister my own age. We played together and shared lessons. I came to love that old nursery. I was very sorry to leave it," she said with a nostalgic sigh.

They stood for a time smiling at each other.

"Is it time for lunch?" she asked, throwing away her stick, sending it sailing in a low arc.

He consulted his pocket watch. "Not yet."

"How beautiful," she said when she saw the gold watch glinting in the sun. "May I see it?"

He hesitated a moment before placing it in her palm. "Oh!" Her hand dipped a little, surprised by the unexpected weight. The watch was made of solid gold with a beautifully designed gold case to hold it. She swept an admiring thumb over the intricate pattern etched on the cover before releasing the catch to open it. The dial was in fine white enamel with crisp black roman numerals and gold hands. It was a large, old-fashioned but impressive watch.

"Is it an heirloom?" she asked, carefully closing the case.

"No."

She gave him an inquiring look. "Where did you get it?"

"It belonged to my father," he said. She watched his face for a long moment and he wasn't sure he wanted to know what she saw there.

The pocket watch was one of the few items that his mother had saved, stubbornly refusing to sell it so that her son would have something that belonged to his father. John had not wanted it. He had not wanted any keepsake of the man whose carelessness, selfishness and weakness had destroyed their family.

She gave it back to him. "I am sorry. Your fa—"

"Don't be," he said briskly as he returned the watch to his pocket.

"But—" she began and then stopped.

He didn't want to talk about it. He had never discussed his father with anyone. Not even his mother. And Fanny had been too young to understand anything. He didn't want to talk about his past—not today and especially not now.

But when he looked at Margaret, he saw that she had lowered her head, the brim of her hat hiding her face from him. Even without looking at her, he knew that she had lost all the cheeriness that she had a moment ago.

"My father was very fond of watches," he heard himself tell her.

Margaret lifted her head, but she did not speak.

"He bought this one from Paris. It is a Breguet." He took out the watch again and opened the back cover to show her the gold cuvette on which the maker's name was engraved. "The watch movement uses a very expensive innovation."

He had very clear memories of the day his father had brought the watch. He remembered hunching over the table as his father carefully lifted the cuvette to show him the delicate inner working and explained the difference between a ruby cylinder movement and a verge fuse movement. He remembered his mother's look of shock at the extravagance before reluctantly conceded that it was a fine watch when she saw the enthusiasm on her husband's face.

"John?" she said softly.

He realised he had drifted off in his own thoughts. "It was his favourite piece," he said, looking at the watch.

"You have taken good care of it," she said.

He had. He never knew why. And he never knew why he continued wearing it. Her green eyes continued searching his, curious and perceptive at the same time.

"It is a unique piece," he said. "Although to be fair, all Breguets are unique. No two are exactly alike."

"Did he teach you about . . ." she paused. "Is there a name for the subject?"

He nodded. "Horology."

"Did he teach you horology?" she asked.

"More than I cared to learn."

"I thought you would have enjoyed learning about mechanical things," she said.

"I did. But I was more interested in big, loud machines. A watch was not nearly as exciting as a steam engine."

She smiled at that and then tilted her head a little. He instantly knew she was trying to picture him as a young child just as he had done with her.

"I cannot imagine you as a little boy," she surprised him by admitting.

"A beanpole with a nose he hadn't grown into," he described himself.

She pressed her lips, trying hard not to show her amusement, but her eyes were sparkling with laughter and her dimples deepened. It was enough to make him want to say more.

"I used to spend a lot of time in the repair shop and the engine-room," he told her. His father's factory had been his favourite childhood haunt. He had first visited the place when he had been seven or eight years old. He remembered being utterly terrified and utterly captivated. He had gone missing for hours as he had explored the place. One of the workers had finally found him in the engine room, covered in soot and grease. It had been the best day of his young life.

"Wasn't it dangerous?" she asked.

"That was part of the appeal."

"So you must have sneaked in," she easily guessed. She smiled in approval at the eight-year-old he had been. "Were you ever caught?"

"It never stopped me."

She laughed then, a lovely, mirthful laugh and the sound of it echoed through him in every nerve and vein. He felt his chest tighten, as he stood looking at her in a lovesick daze. _Lovesick_?

Inwardly startled by the thought, he kept an amused smile on his face. "Shall we go inside?" he asked.

She nodded, a smile hovering on her lips. Before she could do it herself, he reached out to untie the ribbons of her hat. She looked surprised, but she didn't protest and stood perfectly still while he undid the knot. She had tied it loosely about her face due to the heat. A delicious scent clung to her, a combination of soap and skin that teased his senses. He carefully removed the hat from her head.

"Thank you," she said, taking it from him. "I will go wash my hands and join you in the dining room."

He nodded and after watching her disappear into the house, he went back to survey the garden as an idea came to him.

* * *

Later that evening, Margaret was seated at her vanity table. Her new maid, Martha, had just finished dressing her hair and was helping her tie her slippers. Securing the knot with a flourish, Martha stood up to admire her handiwork.

The gown Margaret was wearing was part of her wedding trousseau. Fanny had selected the fabric and Margaret had selected the design. The gown was made of rose-tinted silk and shot through with pale gold threads, creating a shimmering rose-gold effect. It was cut in a simple style with short sleeves and a wide neckline that left her shoulders bare. An intricate gold design decorated the close-fitting bodice and the hem of the skirts.

Her hair, usually too heavy for pins, had been artfully twisted and pinned up in an elegant style. As the final touch, Martha had tucked a scarlet rose into her hair. Just as Fanny had commanded.

Pleased with the look, Margaret thanked her maid and left her room. John had said he would meet her downstairs. Walking softly, she descended the staircase and crossed the hall to the drawing room.

She paused near the doorway. John was standing in the far corner of the room, leaning over a table, reading something with a slight frown of concentration. She felt an instant flare of irritation. Did the man ever stop working? But his absorption gave her the rare opportunity to study him unobserved.

He was impeccably dressed in formal evening wear. His black coat sharply contrasted with the ivory coloured silk waistcoat and matching cravat tied over pristine white linen. His dark hair had been brushed back, but it didn't look like he had bothered to set it. Already a small lock of hair had fallen over his forehead. However, it did nothing to diminish how forbiddingly handsome he looked.

He had been a different creature this morning, she thought. He had been curious and amused and the corners of his eyes had crinkled attractively when he had smiled. And even though he had been reluctant to talk about his parents, he had told her enough for her to draw a picture of a happy childhood before tragedy had befallen the family.

But how different their childhoods had been. Hers had been spent in an idyllic, forest community and his in a busy, industrial city. And yet she could not deny that this morning had created a fragile connection between them.

He was quite intent on his reading and not wanting to be a voyeur, she took a step inside the room to alert him of her presence. Her silk rustled softly as she moved. He instantly looked up. Margaret tried for a smile but couldn't manage it. Instead, a hot tide of red washed over her.

He was looking at her in that strange, piercing way of his that made her want to curl her toes. She felt acutely self-conscious in her dress with the showy rose in her hair. A moment ago, she had been happy with them but now they made her feel as if she was on display.

Blushing furiously beneath his steady regard, Margaret finally stopped before him and unconsciously held her breath.

Instead of uttering some pleasantry as most men would have, John remained silent and drew out a small object from his pocket. It was a jeweller's box.

She immediately shook her head when he held out the small flat case. "Please . . . you don't have to."

"I had bought it as a wedding gift," he explained, "but I never got around to presenting it to you.

She fell silent at that. She wordlessly took it from him and opened the lid. Inside was a pair of gold openwork earrings set with two sparkling diamonds.

As she stared at the earrings, a succession of emotions went through her—pleasure and happiness followed by discomfort and a sense of obligation. She did not want him to give her such expensive presents. It felt undeserved and reminded her of what she was denying him.

She lifted her gaze to him. "Shall I wear it tonight?" she asked, wondering if that was what he intended.

"If you think they will suit your gown," he said.

Margaret walked to the mirror above the mantle and carefully took off the small gold hoop earring that she had been wearing. She saw him follow her and watch her as she put on her new pair.

The earrings looked even more stunning when worn. The openwork design showed off the diamonds to brilliant effect.

"They are beautiful. Thank you," she said, looking at his reflection. "Did father tell you my birth month?"

"Yes," he said. "I needed your age for the license."

"What is your date of birth?"

"November the first."

She placed her old earrings in the case. "I will keep this back in my room."

"You can keep them later," he said, taking the box from her and slipping it into his pocket. "It's time to go."

When they were seated in their carriage and on their way, she asked, "Who are the Hampers?"

"They are an old Milton family. Mr Hamper was one of the early cotton lords. The sons run the business now, but the old man continues to be an important figure."

"Cotton lords?"

"It is exactly as it sounds," he said with a wry smile. "The trade was very different fifty years ago. The early masters had unlimited power. There were only a handful of mills so they controlled all the terms."

Seeing the look of dismay on her face, he assured her. "Mr Hamper was one of the few sensible masters from that era. The business wouldn't have lasted this long otherwise. The Hampers are good people, you will like them."

The Hampers lived in the quieter district of Milton, on a street lined with spacious townhouses. As soon as their carriage rolled to a stop, a footman opened the door and let down the steps. John handed her out of the vehicle and led her up the short front stairs and into the brightly lit hall.

Mr Hamper, their host, was a large man with white whiskers framing his face. Upon noticing them, he walked toward them, lightly supporting himself on a cane, a smile of welcome on his face.

"Thornton, good to see you."

The men shook hands and John introduced her to Mr Hamper, who greeted her with warm pleasure.

"Ah, here's my wife." Mr Hamper stood aside to make space for an elderly, white-haired woman. Mrs Hamper regarded her with a sharp, lively gaze.

"I'm glad you could come," she said, offering Margaret her hand. She stood back, her gaze flickering from John to Margaret and then taking in the both of them together. "You make a very handsome couple. Do they not, William?"

As they stood conversing with the Hampers, there was no doubt that they were attracting the attention of the assembled guests. Margaret could see people quietly turning in their direction and then moving their heads close together to exchange their observations. She wondered what they saw or what they thought they were seeing. A handsome couple, as Mrs Hamper had called them . . . a couple in love? They stood side by side, his arm lightly brushing her shoulder, though they scarcely glanced at each other. They were behaving, she thought, like a respectable married couple—together but without paying each other any overt attention.

They stayed together as they proceeded about the room and exchanged greetings with the other guests. She recognised most of them from the wedding reception but there were also a lot of new faces. There were businessmen, politicians, bankers and a few profession she had never heard of. And there were, of course, the Latimers.

"I haven't seen Miss Latimer tonight," she made herself ask after exchanging pleasantries with the mother.

"Oh, she is over there," Mrs Latimer turned to indicate a group across the room.

Margaret inclined her head in greeting when Ann Latimer met her gaze. Ann acknowledged her but she remained with her friends and did not move to join her mother. Margaret talked with Mrs Latimer for a while before she and John drifted to another group.

If she were honest with herself, the thought of meeting the Latimers, especially Ann, was the only part of the evening that had made her uneasy. But now having gone through with it, she felt that perhaps she was being oversensitive. The Latimers were quite cordial and she doubted that Ann would do or say anything that might draw any attention to her disappointed expectations.

Mrs Hamper appeared at her side and drew her away for some time.

"I must say you are an extremely pleasant surprise," the old lady confided with a twinkling look. "When I heard that Mr Thornton had taken a bride from the South, I expected a young woman full of airs and graces, looking down her nose at our smoky, dirty town."

Margaret smiled since there didn't seem to be anything to say in response to that but she admired the old lady's candour.

Mrs Hamper continued: "I heard that you visit the worker's district."

Margaret marvelled anew at the speed at which news travelled in Milton. "I have a good friend there and I know some of her neighbours."

To her surprise, her hostess nodded approvingly. "I wish more young women would take an interest. Although you must take care, those districts can be quite rough."

It was true, to an extent. Princeton had frightened her a little in the beginning. She remembered the first time she had run into a mob of workers as they were returning home from their mills. They had come rushing along with bold and loud laughs. The tones of their unrestrained voices and their carelessness of all common rules of street politeness had been terrifying. That was how she had met Nicholas. He had helped her get away from the crowd and advised her to avoid the street when the whistle sounded at the mills.

"Why don't you join me for tea next Wednesday?" Mrs Hamper asked. "The Ladies Committee will be meeting on that day. We are planning a charity event to raise funds for the poor schools. It would be nice to have a fresh and young mind in our committee."

"Thank you," Margaret said. "I would love that."

They chatted for a while during which Margaret discovered that Mrs Hamper was something of a champion of social causes. Her passion was genuine and infectious and Margaret found herself looking forward to learning more from the lady.

Supper was an elaborate affair with an endless procession of platters and trays and a great many courses. The food was magnificent, the wine delicious and the conversation stimulating.

Margaret was surprised to think how much she enjoyed this party. She had never thought she would be fascinated by the things that were discussed at the table. The men talked about commerce and politics, the state of trade, policy and regulations and the fortunes of companies. They discussed whether America was a better supplier or not, debated the rising price of cotton and compared interest rates. She knew enough now to understand some of the technical words employed by the men and listened to them with interest. She was beginning to get a sense of the power which these Milton men had and even if some of it savoured of boasting, it did not seem entirely unwarranted.

She knew that in her cooler moments she might not approve of their attitude in all things but for now, she was willing to set aside her objections and learn to view them with understanding and even admiration for what they had accomplished.

Margaret found her gaze constantly drawn to her husband. He was a quietly powerful presence and even though he did not speak very much when he did, she noticed that other men listened with keen attention. Judging from the way the men sought his opinion on a variety of matters, it was becoming clear to her that her husband was a man of considerable influence. In her ignorance and arrogance, she had viewed him as a mere mill owner and John himself had never bothered to correct her impression. She had never really understood or appreciated the complexity and extent of his business or the power and influence he wielded.

A line from Isaiah came to her . . . _her merchants like princes_. A merchant prince, she thought fancifully, looking at John. She knew that he would scoff at such an absurd and romantic notion if she were to tell him.

His gaze suddenly locked with her and even though they were seated far apart, she was aware of an instant connection between them. There was an arrested expression on his face and she wondered what her expression conveyed. She gave him a brief and vague smile and tore her gaze away, not wanting to be caught staring at her husband across the dining table.

* * *

"Congratulations," Mr Hamper told John as they rejoined the ladies in the parlour. "She is a lovely young lady."

John gave a nod of acknowledgement. Margaret was standing at the far side of the room, talking with another lady and Colthurst, a local politician.

"And extremely handsome, if I may be allowed to say so," Collingbrook joined in, following his gaze to Margaret.

John was not very surprised by the congratulatory and envious looks that he had received from his acquaintances upon meeting Margaret. It was as he had expected. Despite all their successes and professed indifference to the old-fashioned South, the old hierarchies were too deeply ingrained to be easily erased. The lure of the cultivated class was too powerful to resist for even the most progressive Northerner. John was well aware of the southern glamour that Margaret had the power of throwing over most people—her soft and cultured voice, her way of talking and moving and the fact that she was a gentleman's daughter. More than one man had enquired about her at the Marlborough dinner.

But he was also aware that Margaret's appeal went beyond that. Her youth and stunning beauty would always draw attention regardless of her background.

He swept a swift gaze across the room, slowing down to linger on Margaret, experiencing as always a stab of longing at the sight of her. She was breathtaking tonight, outshining every other woman in the room. Her gown, elegant and simple, moulded her slender curves; her hair, dark and glossy, had been swept up to reveal the delicate lines of her neck and shoulder and was adorned with a single bewitching rose.

He had expected the envious looks and covetous glances but what he had not expected was the raw possessiveness he experienced.

He glanced at Margaret. She seemed to be in the midst of a rather involved conversation and while Colthurst had the audience of two ladies, it was more than obvious who held his attention.

Ignoring the surge of irritation at the sight, he firmly returned his attention to his group and listened to everything that was being said without hearing a word. He was aware of an ugly, dark mood creeping over him and was shocked by the strength of the feeling.

He was rarely vulnerable to unnecessary and excessive emotions. His life had been ruled by logic and discipline and responsibility. Margaret, he could now admit to himself, was the only indulgence he had allowed himself. It was as if all the temptations that he had denied himself in his youth had come over him on that night when he had made the decision to marry her. It was a strange experience, allowing himself to be driven by emotion rather than reason and John wasn't sure he liked it. But it didn't seem to matter. His gaze and thoughts kept drifting to Margaret.

He supposed he ought to woo her but he suspected that she would view any such attempt with wariness. He knew he would. She had looked uncomfortable accepting the earrings from him. He imagined the gift must have appeared as an attempt to persuade her with expensive presents, although that had not been his intention.

The night was drawing to a close and many of the guests were preparing to take their leave. He crossed the room toward Margaret, threading through groups of guest, avoiding getting drawn into conversations.

When he reached her side, he rested a possessive hand on the small of her back and felt her startle at his touch.

"Ah, Thornton," Colthurst said, acknowledging his arrival.

He knew Colthurst, not closely, but well enough that a small conversation was expected.

"It has been a while. How are you?" Colthurst enquired.

"Quite well."

"Congratulations on handling the strike. The relief is quite evident," he said, glancing at the guests.

Next to him, Margaret remained impassive. It was one of the subjects that they had wisely decided to not talk about.

"I imagine everything is back to normal?" the man continued.

"Business is a bit more complicated than that," John said. "It will take a while."

Colthurst nodded, turning his attention to Margaret. "Well, it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance," he said, bowing gallantly over her hand.

John led Margaret away and they soon took their leave.

"Did you enjoy the evening?" he asked when their carriage started moving.

She was looking out of the window but she turned her head alertly at the question.

"Yes. Very much," she said with a frank smile.

"I thought you may not have liked listening to commercial and business discussions."

"On the contrary, that's what I enjoyed the most. I was very much interested in what the gentlemen were talking about, even though I did not understand half of it. But they spoke with such seriousness and thoroughness and not in the used-up style at London parties, I was engrossed."

"You seemed to get along well with Mrs Hamper," he remarked.

"Oh, I like her very much," she said. "She is quite a character. She is quite determined that I should not idle away my time."

"I didn't think there was any fear of that," he said. "What did you talk about with Colthurst?"

"Mr Colthurst was explaining some of the difficulties in establishing a school for young boys," she answered. "I had not realised that there are not many schools here that offered a proper education."

Of course, John thought. Colthurst and his schools. He would have found a pretty ready listener in Margaret.

"It seems that the men are not quite easy in their mind even though the strike is over," he heard her ask.

"The market usually takes some time to recover after a strike," he explained. "A lot of mills are behind on their orders."

She hesitated a moment. "And what about Marlborough Mills?"

He looked at her in surprise. She had never shown any interest in the actual running of the mill and rarely from the master's point of view. "We are trying to meet the shipment dates. I plan to ask the hands to work overtime the next few weeks. Once the large orders have been fulfilled, things will settle down. It's nothing I can't handle."

"I didn't mean to suggest that," she said hastily. "It is just that I heard the men complain about lack of skilled workers and I wondered if the situation at Marlborough Mills is different."

"We have more efficient and modern machines. It makes all the difference."

"But you will still require skilled workers."

"Yes," he acknowledged, "the looms are only semi-automatic. They are the best of their kind but they have their own set of problems. We are working with the loom factories to perfect the design."

"Wouldn't these machines put a lot of people out of work?" she asked, twisting in her seat to face him, a look of absorption on her face.

It attracted him the way she would unconsciously drop her guard whenever something challenged her mind.

"Yes," he admitted. "But it can't be helped. I don't think we will ever completely eliminate the workers, but it will reduce our dependency on them significantly."

A small frown had settled between her fine, dark brows. "But isn't this an unfair notion of progress?"

He smiled slightly. "You are only looking at a part of the picture. Mechanization will improve life for everyone. It will give rise to new industries and more work will be created as a result. Things will become affordable because machines will make mass production possible and bring down the cost of producing an article. The benefits far outweigh the negatives."

She remained silent as she appeared to consider his points. He could see the changes in her expression as she sifted through his arguments. He saw that she did not entirely agree with him.

"I would like to see some of the machines myself," she said surprising him. "I haven't even seen your mill."

"No, you haven't," he said. "Would you like a tour?"

"Yes, I would like that very much."

He considered the best time to show her around. "You will have to give me a couple of weeks," he said. "We are running on a very tight schedule and—"

"I understand. I wasn't expecting it right away. I can wait."

His reply was forestalled as the carriage rolled to a halt. They had reached home.

* * *

The house was quiet when they entered. It was well past eleven. The servants had long since gone to bed, except Grimsby, who let them in and bolted the door.

Margaret made her way across the hall to the stairs.

"Margaret?"

When she turned around, he said, "Will you join me for a moment? I want to show you something."

She stood with her hand on the bannister, surprised by the unusual request but followed him when he went in the direction of the study.

As always, Grimsby had readied the room for him. He had dimmed the oil lamps and kept a small fire smouldering in the fireplace. The flickering flames cast a warm glow over the room and illuminated the polished furniture.

Unlike the other rooms in the house, she hadn't changed anything in his study, instinctively understanding that he preferred the room exactly as it was.

He turned up one of the lamps and set it on the table.

"I wanted to show you these," he said, sliding a few sheets toward her when she reached the table.

Puzzled, Margaret picked up the papers. She realised she was looking at a sketch for a conservatory. He had designed a gable style, rectangular conservatory attached to the house on one side and accessible from the garden. It was a simple design with plenty of glass windows and harmonious with the house.

She lifted her head from the drawings. "You drew this?" she asked.

He nodded. "I thought you could use a conservatory. To grow your dahlias or any other flowers you want."

Lowering her head, she studied the drawings again. They were drawn in the neat and bold hand with a few notes scrawled on the margins. He had shown two views of the building, one from the front and one from the side. She could clearly visualise the final conservatory from his sketches. Tucked into the corner of the garden, the small glass structure would be unobstructive and lovely. Surprised that he would take out time from his busy schedule to create something for her, she looked up at him with genuine pleasure.

"Do you like it?" he asked.

"It's beautiful!" She graced him with a radiant smile. "Thank you."

"I tried not taking too much space. It is on the far side, near the mews," he said, pointing at the sketch.

"It is perfect," she assured him.

"I will arrange for a builder," he said. "It shouldn't take too long to build it. It is not a very complicated structure. I will make sure the construction does not interfere with Newton's work."

"Thank you," she said again. She smiled at the drawings, the sight of them made her happy. She read the notes that he had written for the builder, describing the heating system to be installed. Setting down the papers in a neat stack, she turned to face him, a question on her lips but promptly forgot it when she found that he had been looking intently at her all this time. His expression caused a fierce colour to spread over her face. She could feel her ears turn red and hot.

They were standing very close, not quite touching but close enough for the air to heat between them. She thought about backing away but curiosity and nervousness held her immobile.

In the silence, she could hear the timepiece on his table moving with delicate precision. She waited, wondering what he might do. He continued looking at her and for a brief, electric moment, his gaze dipped to her lips. Desperately, she hoped that he wouldn't kiss her and for reasons that were altogether contradictory.

Sensing her uncertainty, John straightened and stepped away, breaking the spell. She immediately looked away and stepped back as well, putting crucial distance between them.

He reached into his pocket and took out the jewellery case. "Here."

She took the box from him and stared fixedly at it, trying to will her recalcitrant heart to its normal rhythm.

"Your ear. . ." She felt him gently stroke the upper rim.

Startled, she instinctively touched her ear and discovered just how mortifyingly hot it was.

"Yes, it's . . . hot," she said inanely.

He gave her a rare grin, full of amusement and affection and despite everything, she felt like smiling herself.

She suspected it was the ease that they had shared this morning that made it possible for her to smile even as her face continued to flame with embarrassment.

Smilingly bashfully, she bid him good night and slipped out of the room on a small tide of euphoria.


	9. The Walk

**-THE WALK-**

Standing upon the front step of her father's house, Margaret knocked on the door and waited to be admitted.

Her father had invited John and her to dinner. Mr Bell, who had returned to Milton a few days ago and whom she had not seen since the wedding, would be joining them as well.

The invitation had come as a surprise. She had been thinking about asking her father to dinner at Marlborough Mills. She wanted her father and John to get to know each other better. There was this slight awkwardness between them that she didn't like. She thought it would do both—the Milton manufacturer and the Oxford scholar—good to see more of each other. So she was surprised, but delighted too, that her usually retiring father had been the first to extend the invitation and as she would be acting as the hostess, she had wasted no time in planning it. It was also why she was here, one hour early, to make sure everything was ready.

The door was opened by Mrs Brown, the cook and housekeeper. Margaret visited Crampton twice a week to check on her father and the household. They were truly fortunate to have engaged Mrs Brown. She came early in the morning, cooked, cleaned and stayed till she had prepared the evening meal.

Smiling at the matron, Margaret slipped out of her coat and hung it on the peg in the hallway. The door to the study was shut but she could hear her father's voice from within, gently correcting and encouraging his young pupil with the Latin verses.

"It is the Smithers boy," Mrs Brown informed her.

Margaret followed the woman into the kitchen. As they passed the dining room, she saw the dinner table was set with plates and silver. The glass epergne that Margaret had taken out to be used tonight was decorated with fresh flowers, fruits and candles and sat in the center of the table.

Stepping into the kitchen, Margaret breathed deeply of the heady aroma of spices and herbs misting the air inside the small room and then sighed happily. "It smells so good here."

Mrs Brown smiled in acknowledgement as she donned her apron and returned to the stove.

"Can I help with anything?" Margaret asked, lifting the domes covering the dishes to take a look.

"It's all done. There is only the soup left," the woman said, giving the simmering broth a good stir before removing it from the heat.

"Are you sure?"

"Aye! You go upstairs."

Margaret found the drawing room as she had left it yesterday, tidy except that a small pile of books had materialised on the writing table and sheets of paper were strewn on the surface.

Her father was not the most organised of men. With a fond shake of her head, she collected all the books and put them back. She gathered the sheets and opened the drawer to put them away when inside the drawer, set to one side, she noticed a letter half falling out of its envelope. She picked it up and would have tucked the note back in but her senses were arrested by the peculiar fragrance that clung to the page: a dry and salty scent, distinctive to coastal letters. She carefully turned over the envelope and found that the sender's name and address were missing. After pausing for the barest of moment, she slipped out the letter to confirm her suspicion.

Her eyes went straight to the signature at the bottom of the page—Frederick.

Without meaning to, she found her gaze travelling up the page.

 _". . . can never thank those who have shown you kindness. . ."_

 _". . . your acquaintances and mine must be separate. . ."_

 _". . . face it out and stand my trial. I could pick up my evidence . . ."_

Catching herself, Margaret swiftly closed the folds, put the letter back in the drawer and shut it in.

Clutching the edge of the table, she stood staring off into space as memories of her long-long brother flooded her mind.

Fred had not been her playmate. The ten-year difference in their age had made that impossible. Fred had treated her with the hurried affection of a much older brother but there had been moments of fond indulgence, like when he had patiently helped her look up words in his dictionary or allowed her to join him and his friends for fishing or that memorable afternoon when he had knotted a swing for her and then pushed her higher and higher till she had shrieked with fright and laughter. It was the one episode she remembered most clearly. Like all younger sisters, she had looked at him with admiring awe and waited with restless excitement for him to come home during school breaks. Her admiration, however, had also been tinged with a wistful jealousy.

Even at that young age, she had known that Fred was the favourite child. Everybody loved him more, their parents, especially father, the servants, even the ever-dour Dixon. He was the firstborn son—handsome, healthy and with every expectation of a promising career. Fred had caused quite a stir when he'd announced that he wanted to join the Navy. Father had not at all been in favour and after mama's death, he had been even more reluctant to part with his only son but as always, Fred had prevailed.

She remembered the summer Fred had gone away, remembered giving him a little posy as a goodbye gift. She saw him as he had looked that day: smiling and dashing. He had worn his new naval uniform and had tipped his hat at father and her in farewell. It was the last time she had seen her brother.

She had been in London when the news of the mutiny reached them but she had not been considered old enough to be told about it. All Aunt Shaw had said was that Fred would not be coming back to England and that father was heartbroken about it.

Upon her return to Helstone, she had finally asked her father about it. He had told her the full story—the conditions aboard the ship, the cruelty of Captain Reid, the mutiny, the false charges that had forced Fred to live in exile. Fred had taken the name of Dickenson to avoid recognition and was now settled in Spain, safely away from England. Her father had confided all this with the greatest reluctance and had made her promise to never talk about him with anyone.

Even after all these years, her father was still grieving the loss of his son and the manner of the parting. Recalling the letter, she wondered if Fred intended to return, perhaps challenge the ruling and clear his name.

"Ah, there you are," came a familiar voice from the doorway.

She turned around and found Mr Bell standing at the door.

Well into his sixties, her godfather still cut a dashing figure in his dark grey suit, embroidered silk vest and ornate cane. It was only recently she had really gotten to know him. He used to visit them in Helstone when she was a young girl. She had not seen him since she went to London and had forgotten all about him. It had been a great pleasure to renew acquaintance with him. He was wise and whimsical and not above a little mischief for amusement. She adored him.

Smiling, she went to greet him.

"How are you, my dear?" Mr Bell took both her hands and then stood back to look her over as though he hadn't seen in years.

"I'm very well," Margaret said. "And how are you?"

"As you see," he said, placing a kiss on her cheek, "alive."

"Father is with a pupil," she informed him as she linked her arm through his and led him to a chair.

"And your husband?" he asked.

"John will join us soon," she answered. "Shall I ask for some tea? Mrs Brown has made some of the cocoa-nut cakes that you like so well."

He nodded and she hurried to the kitchen to request for a tray.

"I am very glad you are back," she said, returning to the room. "I feared you had had your fill of Milton and longed for Oxford. But father told me you went to London instead."

"I did," he said. "I had some business there. I will stay here for a few days and see if I can persuade your father to come with me to Oxford."

"Oxford?" Margaret said. "I doubt you will succeed. Father would not like to abandon his pupils. And why didn't you come and stay at Marlborough Mills? You know I would love to welcome you."

"It is a tempting offer, no doubt, but, I believe I have better manners than to intrude on a young couple," he replied. Settling back in his chair, her godfather levelled a shrewd gaze at her. "So," he remarked, "you are settled and happy, eh?"

"Yes, of course," she replied automatically.

Smiling and seemingly satisfied with her prompt reply, Mr Bell regarded her with a fond, complacent air. "It is an enormous satisfaction, is it not," he said, smiling to himself, "to be proved right?"

Margaret looked at him inquiringly.

"Call it an old man's intuition," he said, "but I thought that there was something between you and Thornton."

Margaret fell into a stunned silence, rendered speechless that Mr Bell would ever think such a thing, even after fully knowing the circumstances that led to the marriage.

"If you will forgive me for saying so, you used to dislike him—quite intensely," he explained with a sly smile, "altogether too much for a casual acquaintance."

"Mr Bell—" she finally protested.

"I have embarrassed you, haven't I?" he said but continued anyway. "I thought there were some very pretty symptoms about you. As for Thornton, it was not very difficult to guess his intentions, although he is a devilishly reticent fellow."

"Mr Bell," she said again, mortified and dismayed and unaccountably agitated with his interpretation. "It is not true. We hardly knew each other."

"Oh, come now." He waved his hand in an airy dismissal. "When has that ever been an obstacle?"

"No, you are mistaken," she insisted. She couldn't possibly let him believe such an absurdity. "I never thought of him. Such a thing had never entered my head."

"Oh." Mr Bell gave her a sharp glance from above his spectacles and held it for a long moment. Margaret met his assessing look calmly. "Well!" he said, suddenly. "I'm a bachelor and have steered clear of love affairs all my life, so perhaps I'm wrong."

His self-effacing words were at odds with his shrewd gaze but Margaret knew the subject would be dropped for now.

"Oh, here's tea at last," she said as Mrs Brown came into the room, bearing a large tray. As Margaret busied herself with the tea-table, her godfather continued regarding her thoughtfully.

"But you are happy, aren't you?" he asked.

His evident concern for her stifled any wariness she might have felt. "Yes," she replied.

"All right," he said, accepting his cup. "I will stop. But you know, I do take an interest."

"I know."

Her father entered the room at that moment. Margaret was struck by how frail and weary he looked. A rush of love and anxiety filled her. Walking forward, she put her arms around him and hugged him. Startled by the impulsive gesture, he patted her awkwardly.

"Is John not here yet?" he asked as he settled into his chair.

"I came early to look over the arrangements," she replied. "He will be here soon."

She settled in a chair near her father. "Mr Bell tells me that he has invited you to go with him to Oxford," Margaret asked, making him a cup of tea.

"Seriously, Hale!" Mr Bell joined in. "I wish you'd leave Milton, which is a most unsuitable place for you, though it was my recommendation in the first place. Come to Oxford."

Her father shook his head. "I have told you, I cannot. I have the school and my pupils."

She rose to her feet when a knock sounded at the front door.

"Ah, that would be Thornton," Mr Bell said, directing a grin at her.

As she went downstairs, she slowed her steps self-consciously and regulated her expression, separating herself from the woman who had apparently shown _pretty symptoms_. Halfway, she realised just how absurd she was being. Mr Bell couldn't see her. She didn't need to prove a point—there was no point to prove. Mr Bell was wrong.

She opened the door and felt a warm smile spread across her lips as she saw his familiar tall form.

He smiled back, looking slightly bemused at the reception.

"I am not late," he asked as he stepped inside.

"No." She noticed he had changed into a fresh shirt and coat. "Father has just finished with a pupil. He is in the drawing room with Mr Bell."

The men exchanged greetings and soon relaxed into conversation. The conversation was mostly carried out by Mr Bell and John. Her father listened, at times with attentiveness, at times seeming to wander off in his own thoughts and she briefly wondered if his preoccupation had anything do with Fred's letter.

Margaret elected to sit a little away from the men, her thoughts drifting to what Mr Bell had said.

If she faced the matter honestly, there was one thing that Mr Bell had been right about: she had professed too often and too strongly about not liking John. It was unimaginable now that she had felt things so strongly.

Whatever she had thought about him no longer rang as true as it once had. Living with John, talking to him, seeing him day after day had been something of an eye-opener. It astonished her to discover how much she enjoyed his company, his intelligent conversation, his wry humour. She hadn't been prepared for that, hadn't expected it.

Neither had she expected to enjoy the freedom that came with being a married woman—the freedom to run her own house, to decide upon her acquaintances and friends, to plan her days. Young women were hemmed in by propriety and chaperonage. It had been remarkably tedious in London to have a footman follow her and Edith if they wanted to stroll beyond Harley Street. And the society had been so limited. In Helstone and to a greater degree in Milton, she had tasted independence and she had met people. She had been terribly worried she would lose this freedom after marriage.

But John had utterly controverted her fears in this regard. He had not stopped her from visiting Princeton nor had he curtailed her movements in any way. He seemed to genuinely care about her comfort and her wishes.

Glancing at her husband, she thought, that it was a cautious, even hopeful, beginning to a marriage but she also knew that they were living through an interval that could not last nor could it be prolonged indefinitely.

* * *

John surveyed the work that the builder had accomplished on Margaret's conservatory. The foundation and the brick floor had been laid and the workers were in the process of installing the cast-iron frames.

He smiled as he thought of her flitting about the finished conservatory among her flowers and ferns. His main comfort, in these early days of their marriage, was that she was not unhappy. He had taken great care to ensure that. The house and the household schedules were hers to run and organise as she saw fit. All these years, he had been so busy with his work that he had never had time to develop any domestic habits and so he was perfectly happy to fall into whatever routines she chose to establish.

She may not yet be ready to give herself to him, but he wanted her to demand from him—his time, his attention, whatever was in his power to give her. He wanted to provide for her and spoil her and would have done so if he thought she cared for such things. So far the only bills he had received were for the furnishing that she had purchased for the house. She hadn't bought a single article for herself and he was certain she hadn't touched the amount that he had set aside for her personal expense. Knowing how she would resent being beholden to him, he had arranged for the amount to be replenished every month without question.

It had not been a surprise that she preferred the drawings that he had made for the conservatory than the diamond earrings he'd gifted her.

If it was a conservatory she wanted, he decided, then she would get the very best one.

After speaking with the head worker and satisfying himself on the progress, he returned to the house.

Margaret was standing at the door to the dining room, speaking with a maid.

He looked at her, watching her. She must have just returned from her meeting with Mrs Hampers. She had taken off her bonnet and was dangling it by the long ribbons. With her other hand, she was holding the ends of her fringed shawl, which swung rakishly from one shoulder.

After the servant withdrew, Margaret turned and walked towards him. Her cheeks were still warm and flushed from the sun. She had worn her hair in a practical, prim knot but a few, long wisps of black hair had escaped, softening the style.

"Were you inspecting the work?" she asked, glancing in the direction of the conservatory.

"Yes," he replied. "It should be ready by next week."

"I can't believe how quickly it is coming up." She smiled, amazed at the fact. "I'll join you in a moment," she said as the maid returned to the dining room, carrying the lunch trays.

He stood in the hall, watching her as she hurried up the stairs, her feet light and graceful on the tread. A long, long moment went by before he realised he was gazing at the empty stairway. He went into the dining room, a smile of resigned amusement lurking on his lips.

It never failed to amaze him how much he enjoyed looking at her.

A few minutes later, she joined him, looking as neat as a pin. Her hair had been smoothed back and the shawl was gone.

"How was your meeting?" he asked, spreading the napkin across his lap.

"It was wonderful," she said. "I am very happy I went. They are an extremely pleasant group and very devoted to their cause. I had a delightful time with them."

He smiled. "I am glad you enjoyed the meeting. It certainly ran long."

"Oh, we finished on time," she said. "Mrs Hampers and I went to Mr Colthurst's school afterwards. He had told me about it and I wanted to see it."

John felt himself go grim in an instant.

"I didn't know you were interested in visiting," he said.

"Oh, I believe I mentioned it," she replied offhandedly.

She hadn't. He said nothing but it was a shock to realise how angry he was.

Seemingly unaware of his darkening mood, she went on. "I really liked the school," she gushed. "He showed us the classrooms and explained the curriculum. I think it is wonderful that he is making good education available to the children of Milton. Father would have liked to see the school and speak with him. Mr Colthurst plans to offer similar classes for the factory children . . ."

John had stopped listening. All he could see was Margaret as she had been at the party, deep in conversation with Colthurst. He did not want to remember how interested she had looked or how captivated Colthurst had been with her.

"What do you think?" Margaret was asking.

"About what?" he asked, though he knew what she meant.

"The school. Mr Colthurst told me that he had spoken to you about endorsing it."

"And are you appealing on his behalf?" he asked.

"No." She looked somewhat taken back. "No, but I wish you would. The factory children need education. If you supported the school, it would encourage the other masters to—"

"The school will not accomplish anything," he cut in, his voice clipped, prepared to put an end to the idea. "It would be a waste of time."

Her expression froze as she took in his tone. Her hopeful gaze cooled. "The school is not a waste of time."

Had he not been so annoyed, he would have told her that right now was not a good time for this discussion.

"Nobody is going to send their children to school when they could be earning," he said.

"But it is not right to force the children to work," she said.

"Right or wrong makes no difference. It is the way things are."

She looked at him in disbelief. "I don't understand this. Those children work for you. How can you not care about them? If they received education, they could have a better life."

"No, they won't," he said. "Those children do not need a fancy school. They can get all the education they need at Sunday schools."

"Sunday schools?" Her voice was full of disdain. "So as not to interfere with their availability on the other six days when the mill is open?"

Annoyance rippled through him.

"You speak of things you do not understand."

"I do understand."

"Do you?" he asked, now truly furious. "Do you really think his school is going to save those children? Give them jobs? Feed them? What will they eat while they are getting educated? Only someone who has never known any hardship can believe such foolish schemes."

"That is not true—"

"What do you know of hardship?" he asked loudly, cutting her off. "Of suffering? What do you know of the world?"

"And that is supposed to set me down?" Her small shoulders were tense with anger and reproach. "I may not know much of the world but I do know right from wrong." She picked up the fork and knife. "I am sorry I asked you," she said, as she slashed away at the food on her plate. "I don't know why I thought you might care. You don't need to support the school. I shall ask if I can volunteer—"

"No, you won't." The words were out of him—swift, final.

She stilled, her eyes going wide. "I beg your pardon?"

He recognised that he was in the grip of a completely irrational emotion but could do nothing but appease it.

"You will not have anything to do with that school either. If you want to help the children, find another way."

She stared at him, indignation warring with incredulity. "You cannot command me to—"

"Margaret," he said, looking very directly at her. "No."

Incensed beyond words, she dropped the fork and knife against her unfinished plate. Snatching the napkin from her lap, she pushed back her chair and left the room.

John waited till the sound of her footsteps on the stairs, now rapid and furious, faded before tossing his own napkin onto the table and getting to his feet.

He spent the afternoon with his overseer, checking that everything was being conducted according to his directions. He looked over the account books and other business papers and dictated contracts to his clerk.

He reviewed the reports on the stock and the production rate that his manager had left at his desk. Or, at least, he sat at his desk, the report in one hand, while he stared through it and brooded.

His brooding, however, didn't help him deal with his sudden unreasoning hatred for Colthurst. He had a minor acquaintance with the man and had found him interesting. But now he loathed him. Loathed knowing that he was exactly the kind of man Margaret would have chosen had she had a choice—a man with a social conscience.

He had not known that Margaret wanted to visit Colthurst's school. She had not talked about it since the party and he had assumed that that had been the end of the matter. Knowing that she had spent time with the man and then hearing her defend his views to him, argue with him over it had sparked an anger so fierce, he could hardly own it as his.

He rose from his desk and walked to the window, staring moodily at the yard below for long minutes.

Gradually, his mind began to clear. He should have handled the situation better. Her behaviour hadn't been out the ordinary at all. Belatedly he remembered that he was married to the daughter of a former Oxford scholar, who had inherited a love for learning and education from her father. She hadn't been defending Colthurst's views as much as she had been defending what she valued.

He knew that Margaret would never soften towards him unless he supported whatever cause she chose to champion. The problem was that he really didn't share a lot of her views. Margaret had a strong sense of justice and fairness but knew little of the realities of life. John had no patience for the so-called social reform, this project of bettering the working class with middle-class morality in the guise of education. What he had told her about Colthurst's school was true. The school would be a waste of time. Education was not going to defeat poverty. More jobs, _better_ jobs—economic growth—was what was going to defeat poverty. But he doubted Margaret would view it as such.

He glanced up at the sky. It was, he observed almost dispassionately, a spectacular day. Or would be, if one could get away from the haze enveloping the city. His gaze drifted to the mill house visible above the high stone wall and wondered what his wife might be doing.

* * *

Margaret walked in through the front door of the mill house, feeling weary and restless and still unbelievably angry.

She had spent the afternoon in Princeton, tending to her sick friend. The doctor had told Bessy to stay away from the mill, it would kill her if she went to work anymore. But even with that, her decline was alarming. She had been thin when Margaret had first met her but now she looked skeletal. Her complexion was gray and she could barely speak, the violent coughing had scraped her throat dry and exhausted her to the point of collapse.

As she was leaving, she had hugged Bessy hard and promised to come again soon.

"A delivery has arrived from Hardy's," Grimsby informed her as she stepped into the entryway.

A brown parcel was waiting for her on a corner table in the library. She untied the twine and removed the wrapping paper to uncover two books: _The Amateur Gardener's Calendar_ and _Botany for Ladies_. She had ordered the books to supplement the education provided by Newton.

On any other day, she would have been delighted. Today, however, she stood staring at the books, undecided what to do. She thought about going to her room, she could read the books, eat dinner there and—

It was too early to retire and she loathed to think that she might be avoiding John.

Grabbing a book at random, she sat on the settee, propped the book on her knees and fell into brooding.

Margaret had dashed off to her room after the argument. She had been angry, furiously so. Sitting on her bed, she had allowed the flood of anger to sweep away all rationality. He was a tyrant, a bully, a cold, unfeeling, ill-tempered man. He did not care about the workers or children or anybody. All he cared about was his mill and his business. Nothing else mattered to him. She did not know why she thought he would be interested in a school. He and the other masters probably plotted ways to keep the children away from schools. She'd deliberately feed her anger, and had known it, but she'd been too furious to stop.

Each time she'd thought about his high-handed treatment, it had fanned her anger into a blaze. If he thought she would abide by his command, he was sorely mistaken. If he wanted a biddable wife, he should not have married her.

Viciously, perversely, she'd wished Mr Bell could have seen this afternoon's argument, she would love to hear what he would have to say now.

She would have indulged her anger all noon had she not remembered that she had promised to visit Bessy and so she had gone to Princeton.

The door of the library opened suddenly, startling her. John stood in the doorway, looking at her with an unfathomable expression. They held gazes for a charged moment before she looked away, returning her attention to the book open on her lap.

He entered the room and closed the door. Margaret remained where she sat, tense as a violin string, frowning at the book.

From the edge of her vision, she saw him walk further into the room towards the table and pick up the book. His perusal was unhurried as if he were giving himself time to think about something.

After looking through the book, he put it down and turned to her. She knew he was watching her, could feel the full force of his notice but she sat where she was pretending he wasn't looking at her.

After what seemed like an eternity, he finally said, "I'm sorry about this afternoon, Margaret. I should not have spoken so. I did not express myself very well."

"No, you expressed yourself quite clearly," she shot back, scowling at her book.

"I was angry, Margaret," he said. "You are my wife. I wanted you to understand my decisions, not question them."

At that, she faced him. "I am not that kind of wife," she said. "I won't be that kind of wife."

She half-expected him to retort with something cutting, but he did not. Instead, he looked at her consideringly. "Do you not want to understand what it is to be in my position? I thought you liked to see both sides of a question."

"And have you tried to understand my position?"

The impossibility of their stance hung in the air between them. She looked away and fastened her gaze to her book, focusing blindly on the words and wishing with all her heart that he would go away.

She heard him draw a slow breath and then, "Margaret. Look at me."

She didn't want to. His apology had changed nothing. If anything, his calm manner was infuriating. He was making it appear as if the afternoon's argument had somehow been her fault. The silence went to almost foolish lengths before she closed the book with a snap and turned to face him.

"Will you join me for a walk?" he asked.

"Why?"

He sent her a look of forbearance. "Why do people go for a walk, Margaret?" he asked, a small note of sarcastic exasperation edging his voice.

She regarded him in silence for a few seconds.

"Before I accept, I want you to know that I intend to support the school. I promised to help them and I shall not go back on my word. I am telling you because I don't want you to find out and think that I went behind your back."

He kept her waiting for what felt like yet another eternity. But she would not give in and she didn't care if it made him angry.

He gave her a lengthy stare before giving a small nod.

The route that John took was unfamiliar to Margaret. She had assumed that they would be going to one of the parks in the city. But instead of walking towards the city, they were heading in the opposite direction, towards the plains that he had pointed out to her from the first-floor window. Walking briskly, they soon left the bustle of the streets behind, going past small stores, past detached villas with trim gardens, past rows of tiny houses, till those too petered out and they came to country hedgerows.

From there, he guided her to a narrow sunken path that branched off the main carriage road. The path was bordered and covered over by ancient oak trees and led them further away and towards a wide-open field that marked the beginning of the surrounding country.

Behind them, the city loomed like a dark mountain, bolting the sky with its presence but if one kept one's back to Milton, it was possible to believe that they were deep in the countryside, surrounded on all sides by endless fields and sky.

They continued walking for a few minutes before Margaret slowed down and stood beneath one of the leafy arching oaks to study the scenery. Before them, the grassy field, dotted with an abundance of bistorts, buttercups and wildflower, spread out and swayed for miles and miles before fading into the distant hills.

The mellow beauty of the vista was as lovely as it was unexpected. The late afternoon sun slanted a long line of golden light on the scene and filtered through the leaves of trees, casting dappled patterns on the ground where they stood. Here the silence was more pronounced and intensified by the buzzing of grasshoppers and the low whistle of wind as it blew through the tall grass.

Turning her face to the cool evening wind, Margaret closed her eyes and took a deep breath of fresh air and felt the tension that had knotted up her shoulders all afternoon ease.

John had stopped a little ahead of her. He stood with his hands in his pockets, resting his weight on one leg, looking contemplative as he gazed out across the field.

"The river is further down," he told her, nodding in the direction of the hills. "I ride there sometimes. It is very peaceful."

She tried to visualise him on horseback and utterly failed.

"Do you ride?" he asked.

"No."

Silence.

"We didn't have a horse in Helstone," she volunteered after a beat. "It is a small parish. We walked everywhere. The walks were very beautiful, it would have been a shame to ride."

After a few moments, he turned to face her. Margaret turned too.

"How do you plan to support the school?" he asked.

"I don't know yet," she replied truthfully. She wanted to tell him about what Mr Colthurst had suggested, but some instinct warned her against mentioning him. "I will speak with Mrs Hampers about it."

She knew she should say nothing further on the subject. She had got her way, so to speak. But she still did not understand his sudden hostility this afternoon, a lightning strike that had come from nowhere.

"Why are you so opposed to the school?" she asked. "Isn't education important?"

"I don't deny education is important," he said, "but I don't see value in the kind of education you speak of."

"Why do you think that," she asked, "when you had that advantage yourself."

He looked at her strangely. "Advantage?"

"I mean it is clear you had received a good education," she said a little hesitantly. He had told her that he had been taken out of school when his father had passed away. He could not have risen to his current position without the knowledge and anchoring provided by a good schooling.

He shifted his gaze to the fading sun. For several moments, she thought he was not going to answer. Despite her intense curiosity, she respected his reticence about his family and didn't pry. She imagined it must be difficult going over the memories and she had no desire to cause him pain.

Finally moving his gaze back to her, he spoke in a neutral voice. "I was sent to school when I was ten. It was one of the best public schools in Darkshire. The most expensive as well. I studied there for five years."

"Did you not like it?" she asked intrigued.

"I liked it very much," he said. "I loved reading and studying. I loved learning. I was considered a pretty fair classic by the schoolmasters." His mouth twisted in a sardonic smile. "I was even going to go to Cambridge. But as it turned out, none of that fine education was preparation for the life I had to lead."

"But surely your education gave you useful knowledge—"

"I might have acquired some useful knowledge had my father apprenticed me at his factory like other manufacturers had their sons. Instead, I was sent to—" he paused abruptly and looked away.

Though she understood that he would have preferred remaining close to the factory, given his early interest in machinery, she nevertheless thought he was being vastly unfair to his father.

Reining himself, he looked back at her purposefully. "The only useful knowledge I had," he resumed, enunciating carefully, "the only _advantage_ I had, was that I could read and write. Any child who can read and write starts fair with me in the amount of really useful knowledge that I had at that time."

She looked at him warily. She did not want to retread the afternoon's quarrel. Even though she was certain she was right, she knew she would never win this argument nor be able to make him understand, not when he was going to pit his personal experience against her beliefs.

"I understand what you are trying to tell me and I appreciate it, but," she said carefully, "I'm afraid I do not agree. I am not doing this to cross you but I think those children need to know more than basic reading and writing if they are to have any chance at life."

She could see that he was displeased but there was nothing to be done about it. She saw that he didn't mean anything by it, not this time, and so they stood staring at each other—he with a narrowed icy-blue gaze, she defiant.

She turned away from him and his gaze. The sun was glorious, gorgeous red as it dipped low and slowly disappeared below the horizon.

"Does the road lead to the river?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied, still looking at her. "In another half mile or so."

He finally turned to look at the sunset. Amazing shades of pink and orange streaked across the sky where the sun had just set.

Relieved that he was through staring at her, she said, "Thank you for bringing me here."

"I imagine we will be coming here a great deal," he said.

She kept looking straight ahead, but she felt her lips curve into a smile at the quip.

"The light is going," he remarked after some time. "We should head back."

She nodded and after a final lingering glance at the vista, set off, ready for home.

* * *

 **AN:** Hey- So. That was a rather long break, much, much longer than I anticipated. But I am back and I want to thank from the bottom of my heart everyone who left encouraging comments and messages. It was so wonderful and so very motivating. I had no idea when I would be done with this chapter, but I'm delighted that I am able to finish it and upload it on Valentines's Day. This chapter is for all you lovely readers. I hope you like it.

I will try to post a chapter every month. That's my goal.

Once again, thank you for your patience. Please let me know what you think of this latest chapter. Your kind words mean the world to me.

Love,

SQ


	10. The Dream

**-THE DREAM-**

"A dinner meeting?"

Surprised, Margaret looked at John from across the small breakfast table in the master suite.

"Yes, this Saturday," he said. "You don't need to plan it. Grimsby knows what is required. And you obviously don't need to be present," he said and went back to his newspaper.

"Are these regular meetings?" she asked.

"Yes."

"How often do you meet?"

"Once a month."

Margaret picked up her toast and nibbled on it thoughtfully. "May I ask what is discussed in the meetings?" she ventured.

John lifted his gaze from the newspaper and gave her a long look.

"You don't have to tell me if it is a secret," she said, lifting the cup to her mouth.

He smiled. "It is no secret," he said, turning the pages of his paper. "We discuss trade, share information, make decisions."

"I didn't realise you dealt so closely with the other masters."

"The circumstances of the industry require it. We don't interfere in the functioning of each other's mills but there are matters that concern us all equally so it is best if we reason together."

"So you do have some influence on one another."

He paused, fixing her with knowing smile and then set aside the paper. "What do you want to ask, Margaret?"

She set down her cup. "I heard about a new rule," she began. "The workers are not allowed to contribute to the union. It is a condition of their employment. Is it true?"

"Yes."

"Do you approve of the rule?"

"I see why it is necessary," he said. "The money goes into a strike fund. The more money they collect, the longer they can prolong a strike, the more damage they can inflict."

Margaret remained silent. She hadn't forgotten how he had openly admonished her and blamed her for prolonging the strike with her baskets. She supposed she could understand his reason, but she worried about the workers. None of the mills had taken back any of the union leaders and now this. It seemed the masters were determined to destroy the union. Margaret remembered Nicholas telling her that the union was their only power, their only defense against the masters.

"I thought you didn't like telling the workers how to spend their money," she said, pausing to needlessly stir her tea, "or in this case, how not to."

She didn't look at him to see his reaction but she could imagine the small furrow between his brows.

"Matters greater than my personal views are at stake," he replied.

Of course, she thought dryly. He always had an answer for everything.

A maid came in to clear the breakfast plates. John checked the time on his watch and rose from the table.

"I might be late for lunch," he said, "I will send a note."

Rather than brooding over the matter, Margaret decided to leave the matter at that. She did not want to fight. Since their last argument, there was a tense, fragile peace between them that they were both unwilling to test. She instead focused her attention on the full day that she had planned for herself: planting saplings with Newton, a review of the inventory with Grimsby, a good piece of Dante, a visit to Bessy and Fanny.

Donning her apron and hat, Margaret spent a good part of the morning in the garden, digging and planting the bare-root rose bushes while Newton hovered grumpily behind her. After planting the last of the bare root, she turned to him with an expectant look. The old gardener acknowledged her careful labour with a "Humph" and moved off.

Margaret pressed down a smile. Newton was such a crotchety old man, nothing ever pleased him. He didn't think much of her gardening skills, having decided early on that she possessed none, and preferred that she stayed far away and left the work to him. Foolishly, she had told him about the books she was reading and he had declared them rubbish. "Botany fer _ladies_!" he had snorted. "Plants are plants, fine lady or not."

She was returning from the garden when she found that a letter from Edith had arrived in the morning post.

The letter was long and affectionate. Her aunt had returned from her Italy trip and would like Margaret to visit London. Edith had not written what her mother thought about the marriage, leaving Margaret to conclude that her aunt must be displeased. Her cousin had spent a great part of the letter describing the Crystal Palace and expressing her delight at discovering yards and yards of fabrics from Marlborough Mill at the exhibition. Margaret had not known that John was one of the exhibitors. Why had he not told her, she wondered. Did he think that she had no interest in the mill or its success? She hoped he didn't think her capable of only criticising it.

Margaret had just sat down to write to Edith when a knock sounded on the door. It was Grimsby.

"There is a girl, Mary Higgins," he said, "She wants to speak with you."

Margaret stood up, feeling a queer sort of dread. "Where is she? Is she outside?"

Moments later, she reached the backyard and found Mary standing dejectedly in a corner, her face swollen with crying.

"Mary!" Alarmed, Margaret rushed towards her. "What happened? Is Bessy—"

"She is in a bad way . . . She asked for you, miss."

In the tiny bedroom on Francis Street, Bessy lay gasping, struggling to pull air into her lungs. A neighbour was sitting next to her but immediately vacated her seat when Margaret entered the room.

"Oh, Bessy!" Margaret hurried to her side. "It's all right. I am here." She held Bessy's hand in a tight grasp, trying to infuse her own strength into her friend. "I am here."

Bessy looked at her, her breath was shallow and rapid but her eyes were peaceful. Margaret pushed back the hair that clung to the girl's damp forehead.

"Get some cold water and a fresh cloth," she instructed Mary. Margaret tried to keep the fear out of her eyes but she had never seen Bessy so ill before.

"She were well enough in the mornin'," Mary told her as she brought a small bowl of water and a rag. "But she had taken worse in an hour."

Margaret gently wiped the sweat from Bessy's face and neck with the cool water. "Is that better?"

The girl closed her eyes, soothed by the temporary relief. "Pa," she breathed.

"Nicholas will be here soon. Don't worry."

Wheezing painfully, her pale, dry lips parted, trying to form words. "Keep him from drink," she said squeezing Margaret's hand with the last of her strength.

"Shush. Don't try to talk. Breathe slowly." She rubbed her hand over Bessy's chest. "That's it. Slowly."

The dying girl's calm gaze stayed on Margaret as she continued to rub in soothing circles.

For long, silent minutes, Margaret watched over Bessy as her friend's eyes began to close and she stopped struggling for air, the rise and fall of her chest grew fainter with every passing breath until it faded away entirely.

The room fell still and silent. Bessy looked as if she were sleeping. The face, often so weary with pain, so restless with troubled thoughts, now had a faint soft smile upon it. It was the only comfort Margaret could draw from such an untimely and senseless death.

She gently withdrew her hand from the loosened grip and laid it across the now still chest. She slowly turned away from the bed and saw Nicholas, who had just arrived, standing at the door.

He haltingly stepped into the room, his gaze taking in his elder daughter lying still on the bed and the younger one sobbing in the corner.

"Were you with her?" he asked, looking at Margaret.

She nodded. "It was peaceful. Look at her face, Nicholas. There's no more pain."

"She's not supposed to go before me." His voice was thick with emotion. "It doesn't make sense. It's not the natural way of things."

He continued looking at his daughter, trying to take in the reality of her death. "Are you sure she's dead?" he asked suddenly. "She's not in a faint or something? It has happened before."

"No, Nicholas," Margaret spoke gently. "She is dead."

At that, he sat down on the bed and gathering Bessy in his arms, finally sobbed his grief.

His misery was heart-wrenching to behold and Margaret, who had never had any encounter with death, stood helplessly. She was uncertain of her role as an outsider but was loathed to leave them in their grief. Tears gathered in her eyes but she brushed them away and held and comforted Mary as the girl wept.

When he had exhausted himself, Nicholas stood up abruptly as if he couldn't bear to be in the house for one more minute and rushed for the door.

"No, father! Not tonight!" Mary tried holding him back. "Help me! He's going out to drink again!"

"Nicholas, no!" Margaret pleaded and stood in front of him, blocking his exit.

He looked at her as if he couldn't quite believe that she would try to stop him. "Stand out of my way!" Margaret didn't know where she got the courage from but she didn't move, imploring him with her eyes to not go. He stared back at her with gloomy fierceness.

"What are you looking at me in that way for?" he asked at last. "If you think to keep me from going where I choose, you're mistaken."

"Bessy did not want you to drink," she said.

"It can't hurt her now." He lifted a pale, haggard face to her. "Nothing can. Whatever she said, she can know nothing about it now. I need a drink to steady me again sorrow."

"No, you don't," Margaret said.

Margaret wasn't sure how to stop him. He had backed off and seated himself on a chair, close to the door, half-resenting, half-defeated but she knew that he would go out as soon as she left. Suddenly, inspiration struck. She could take him to meet father. Father would know how to comfort him, but no sooner had the solution occurred to her than she realised that father would be at the school at this hour.

"Come home with me," she said suddenly, surprising herself with her desperate and bold proposal. It would probably cross the limit of what John would tolerate. But now that she had said it aloud, she couldn't take it back. It was just as well as she couldn't think of any other way to keep Nicholas from going to the gin-shop.

"You are tired," Margaret said kindly. "Where have you been all day—not at work?"

"Not at work." He gave a short, humourless laugh. "But I have walked my feet sore going to see men only to be turned away. And all that time I never knew she lay dying here."

Margaret laid a gentle hand on his arm. "Please listen to me. Come with me. At least you shall have some food."

Margaret waited for him quietly and patiently. Eventually, he stood up and went to the bed and stood looking at his daughter for a long time. "My poor Bess," he said, almost to himself. "She lived the life of a dog. Hard work and illness. She never had one moment of rejoicing. But she'd been a blessing to her father ever since she were born." Stooping down, he kissed his daughter and gently covered her face with the cloth.

Margaret turned to Mary.

"Don't worry about me," the girl assured her. "I will call the neighbours to sit with me. But take father with you."

Nicholas slouched his cap low over his brow as he went out into the street, tramping silently along Margaret's side.

As they got near the mill, Nicholas hesitated as if only now realising what he had agreed to. She understood his reluctance but if she backed away now, it would be worse than ever and certain to drive him to the gin-shop.

"Come," she said firmly.

He gave her a complicated look: of resignation and irony, of camaraderie and acknowledgement of her apparent unconcern in bringing him to a master's house.

He looked down at his clothes, his hands and shoes. "I should have cleaned myself first," he remarked.

Margaret assured him that he would be allowed to go into the backyard and provided soap and towel to clean himself. While Nicholas followed a solemn Grimsby inside the house, Margaret darted a quick glance up at John's window. He was not there but surely, _surely_ he would understand.

By the time Nicholas returned, clean and tidied, he had recovered his composure. He had slicked his hair down with the fresh water, adjusted his neck-handkerchief and borrowed an odd candle-end to polish his clogs with. He was a man used to the rough independence of his own hearthstone but he would give no one cause to point out his rough manner.

He sat with her in the parlour and quietly partook of the meal. Margaret had seen her father offer comfort to grieving parishioners by letting them talk and she did the same. As it turned out, Nicholas had a great many things he wished to say about the injustice of life.

"All this talk of the next world is just talk," he said. "All these sayings made by folk you never saw, about the things no one never saw. Maybe there are folks who've had time to think on these things but my time has been given up to getting my bread. There are many like me. They're real folk. They don't believe in the Bible. They may say they do, for form's sake, but do you think their first cry in the morning is, "What shall I do to get hold on eternal life?" or "What shall I do to earn my bread?"

It was strange to hear echoes of John in Nicholas' speech. It surprised her to think that the master and the worker shared similar beliefs. They were both practical men with scant patience for sentiments, religious or otherwise.

"I'm not saying I don't believe in your God," he continued, "but I can't believe he meant the world to be as it is. The masters ruling over us, the rest of us left to live a half-life in the shadows. That he gave some more than others and that was his will?"

"Nicholas, I . . ." she struggled, caught off guard by his sudden vehemence that seemed to be directed at her. What would father have said? Was this indeed God's will? "Nicholas, I am not trying to convince you of anything. I was only—"

"No, no. I didn't mean to say you were. I weren't blaming you. I—" He sighed. "I haven't forgotten who's lying dead at home and how much she loved you. You are a kind lass to bring me here but it's time for me to be going." He stood up. "I wouldn't like to cause you mischief."

"Will you be going home?" Margaret asked.

"Aye," he smiled. "Home, miss. You may trust me."

"I do trust you, Nicholas."

She went out with him and they stood on the doorstep. She wondered if she had done any good. At least she had managed to honour her friend's last wish. She held his hand earnestly. "Look after yourself."

"Aye."

As she stood watching Nicholas leave, a dark figure at the edge of her vision caught her attention. She knew who it was even before she turned her head to look.

John stood on the steps leading to the mill building. His icy-blue gaze followed Nicholas as he disappeared past the gates and then came to rest on her. Even from this distance, his disapproval was visible. He began walking towards the house, no doubt to demand an explanation. She went inside to wait for him.

She could feel her bravado that usually rose up during such occasions drain away. She closed her eyes, tired of the thought of having to explain this to him. She wanted nothing more than to go to her room and be alone but she went into the drawing room. Taking a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders and faced the door.

His footsteps were in the front hall and a moment later, he was in the room.

Her efforts to appear composed was a failure because instead of asking what Nicholas had been doing here, he frowned at her in concern. "What happened?"

She dragged in a shuddery breath. "Nicholas' daughter, Bessy, she passed away this morning," she explained with forced impassiveness, trying to get it out as quickly as possible. "He was very distraught when he found out. He wanted to go to the gin-shop. I would have taken him to father but father is at school. I didn't know how else to stop him so I brought him here."

There was silence for a moment. "She was your friend, wasn't she?" he asked.

She bit her lips and nodded mutely.

"Were you with her?" he asked concernedly.

Suddenly, his face blurred before her eyes. She lowered her head and a fat tear plopped on the back of her hand. Swiping at her cheek, she averted her face and moved away from him.

"I need to be alone, please."

He ignored her and came and stood next to her. A large, warm hand settled on her back.

"It's all right," he said soothingly.

"It's _not_ all right." She couldn't look at him, she was embarrassed that he was seeing her like this. She kept her face averted as she blinked and swallowed repeatedly to hold herself together.

"Hush." He put his arms around her and she immediately stiffened, unused to being treated so familiarly. But he was not having any of it. "It's all right," he said again.

"It's too sudden. I didn't think . . ." She swallowed a teary gulp. All at once, the grief was too much to bear and she turned to him shudderingly. He collected her against him and stroked her back in slow, soothing motions as she sobbed in shaky gasps.

After a while, she stopped crying and grew calmer, but he did not let her go. He held her, continuing to stroke her back. Beneath the layers of her sorrow, she was startled by the intimate gesture. She couldn't remember the last time someone had comforted her as she had cried. Probably not since she was a young girl. There was something astonishingly comforting about being wrapped in his strong embrace. She felt safe and secure. It seemed to her that he was all solid strength and steadiness. She turned her face and felt the soft wool of his coat against her cheek. Thoughtless, she nuzzled again, comforting herself.

But the next moment, she caught herself and stopped and grew excessively aware of him. And predictably, mortifyingly, her mind chased back to the memory of his kiss. She was shocked that she would remember such a thing even in the midst of her very real grief for her friend.

Pulling free of his arms, she stepped back, brushing away the tears with her hand. He took out his handkerchief and gave it to her.

He slid an assessing gaze over her. "Are you all right?"

She nodded, her throat still felt gluey. "I'm sorry," she muttered, wiping her eyes.

"Were you there all morning?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Mary came to the house to fetch me . . ." Her gaze wandered to the clock on the mantel. Had it only been two hours ago? It was hard to fathom that so much had happened in such little time.

"Who else was there?"

"Just Mary and Nicholas," she answered, "and some neighbour that Mary had called to sit with Bessy." When he didn't say anything, she added, "They needed me." She hated how defensive she sounded.

"I understand," he replied reassuringly, intending to set her at ease.

He understood but reluctantly, she saw that. But it would have to do for now.

* * *

On the night of the dinner meeting, Margaret retired to her room early. She asked Martha to draw a bath and help her wash her hair. She had dismissed the girl for the night and now sat by the fire as she combed and dried her hair.

She had been in an odd, pensive mood ever since Bessy's death. Sighing, she set her brush down on the table. She stood up, stretching and blew out the candle and slid between the soft sheets.

Margaret dreamed that she was in Helstone. She was sleeping on the heather at her favourite spot. Even though she was sleeping, she could see everything. A black-clad figure stood above her. She opened her eyes. Sun-blind, she couldn't see his face but she knew who he was. She got up and started walking and the man fell into step beside her, his dark city boots sinking into the green, spongy grass. She began telling him about the trees and the flowers and the village while he continued walking quietly beside her. They glided for miles and miles over grounds that were thickly carpeted with ferns and flowers as she talked and pointed out things of interest to the silent man.

After a while, it wasn't Helstone anymore. She was lying in the garden behind the mill house and all around and over her were heavy, voluptuous roses, their scent cloying the air and strangely oppressive. She stood up, brushing the rose petals from her clothes and nearly swooning from their heady fragrance. The quality of the dream had changed; it was a different dream—darker, deeper.

She moved towards the house and went into the dining room. A lavish spread was laid out on the table. The man was there, waiting for her to join him. She sat down and saw that Mr Bell was there as well. She ate in silence as anticipation built inside her. She wanted the meal to end and she wanted Mr Bell to hurry up and leave so that she could be free to go upstairs with the man. It was her secret and she didn't want Mr Bell to know about it. She tried waiting patiently for him to finish his meal. But he was crafty, taking his time about it, chewing slowly, pausing often, his movements deliberately unhurried. She felt hot with anticipation of what would happen later upstairs and was wild with impatience that Mr Bell was still at the table. But the dinner went on and on and on. It was maddening. She wanted to scream with impatience. Half-awake with frustration, she forced the dream to move forward.

Suddenly, _finally_ , she was standing at the foot of the staircase that led up to her room. The man was not with her but it didn't matter. Her dreaming self knew that he was upstairs waiting for her. Gathering handfuls of her skirts, she clambered up the steps, hot and eager. She was about to reach the top when, without warning, she slipped and then she was falling and kept falling and falling, plummeting down in empty space while she flailed in terror, trying to stop.

Margaret jerked awake the moment her body hit the ground, heart hammering, palms clammy with fear, barely suppressing a cry.

She reached for the glass of water kept at her bedside. It took her a few moments to regain her breath.

She did not dream often and when she did, they were simple and unremarkable; she hardly remembered them upon waking. She was a sound sleeper. Edith had often joked that she slept like a baby.

Pushing her hair away from her face, Margaret didn't feel so . . . innocent. She had no doubt what was supposed to happen when she went upstairs to the man, why she had been so impatient to get there. She could still taste the keen anticipation and the frustration at the incompleteness of the dream.

She threw off her covers and sat on the edge of the bed.

She should have let him continue on the wedding night. Would it have been so wrong? They were married. What did it matter that they didn't love each other? It didn't seem to bother him. Nor did it seem to bother so many couples she knew in London. She even recalled Aunt Shaw mentioning it once. Clearly, no one thought it was wrong. And maybe this was how most marriages were.

Her head understood all this, agreed even, but her heart rebelled against thinking of her marriage—her life—in such cold and practical terms.

Wrapping her arms around her knees, she let her forehead drop wearily. Sometimes she did not understand herself. She did not want to say no to him, but she did not want to say yes either.

Why had he married her, she wondered. It wasn't a new thought. She had wondered it many times before. She knew it was to save her reputation, but surely it couldn't have been just that. Sometimes she fancied that he might have been lonely. She knew that he enjoyed the lunch that she had established, noticed and took quiet pleasure in the small comforts she added to the house and that he found their supper conversations relaxing after a long, busy day of work. But those were hardly sufficient reasons. Having lived a large portion of his adult life alone must have given him enormous self-sufficiency. He lived a well-ordered, regulated life; a wife would be an unnecessary addition at best and an encumbrance at worst. She did not understand him then, but she did not completely understand him now. It was useless to wonder, still, she could not stop puzzling about the essential strangeness of him: his complete absorption with his work, his relentless drive, his inexplicable temper, his reticence.

Yet there was something undeniably fascinating about that. She was not immune to the fact that other women regarded her with envy and interest. She had experienced a completely inappropriate thrill at the realisation and in the private knowledge that such a man found her desirable. But the reality of him overwhelmed her. She oscillated between excitement and heat in his presence and womanly reserve and apprehension.

She instinctively understood—and this was the heart of it—that if she gave in she would lose in some essential way. She would truly become a possession, something that he had acquired without any effort on his part and with no consideration to her wishes. When she had accused him of it, he had told her that it was not true. She knew he did not think of her as a possession but that did not change the fundamental fact that she was one.

Their marriage was so profoundly unequal. He had offered to marry her to save her from disgrace and she was supposed to be grateful and give herself over to him in return. Already she was indebted to him for his thoughtfulness and consideration but she also knew that a great deal of his kindness and tolerance for her beliefs came from his desire to win her and her secret fear was that if she gave in to him, she would lose herself. At the moment, she could challenge him, argue with him, and make him listen to her viewpoint. He would never have softened his stance about the school if he had not been worried about antagonising her. But once he had what he wanted, he would have no real reason to care about her views. She didn't think that he would ignore or completely override her opinions. On the contrary, she thought he would indulge her greatly but it would all be within the limits of what _he_ judged reasonable. He would have all the say in the relationship and she would be like some fancy creature that he had caught, much admired but bound—a butterfly in a glass jar. She could never abide that.

She did not know how to resolve this situation, how to correct this imbalance or if it could be corrected. How would this end? The future was like a fog she couldn't penetrate. For a fleeting moment, she thought of confiding in him but the very next instant her mind shied away, horrified by the idea of repeating the humiliation of the wedding night. Besides, it didn't seem like the sort of thing a man would understand. Only women were cursed with such thoughts, such caution.

There was little point in going back to bed. She would never sleep. Her brain teemed with too many thoughts.

She remembered the letter that she had been planning to write to Edith. Slipping from her bed, she went to light a lamp and set it on her writing desk. Drawing a sheet of writing paper, she sat down to write her letter.

* * *

John watched as the cigar smoke unfurled in a cloud above the men's heads and listened as they laughed at some joke. Grimsby was moving around the dining table with silent efficiency as he refilled empty glasses and offered cigars to the men.

With the main agenda for the evening accomplished, the masters were in a relaxed mood, some of them had discarded their coats, and the conversation had moved on to less urgent matters.

"The cotton machineries are drawing crowds at the exhibition," Henderson said, leaning towards the candle to light his cigar. "Hibbert and Platt, especially. They have a full installation. And Harrison as well."

"Latimer thinks it would be a good idea to go there to raise finance," Collingbrook supplied.

"You can try," John said, recalling Margaret's cousin enquiry about dabbling in cotton, "but don't get your hopes up."

"Thornton may not wish to go looking for investors," Slickson spoke, rolling his cigar between his fingers, "but it may be a good opportunity for others. The strike is over, the market is starting to pick up, people are interested, so why not?"

"It would be a fool's errand," Henderson said. "Starry-eyed Londoners think they only have to snap their fingers to make a fortune in cotton."

Collingbrook snorted with a huff of amusement.

"Did I tell you, Thornton, about that fellow of yours, Boucher," Harkins was saying. "He came to me begging for work. He was even willing to forsake his Union dues. I had him tossed out of course. But you should have seen him, crying like a baby," he said with a disgusted sneer.

The men chortled.

"By the way, everyone, we are forcing the rule, eh?" Harkins looked around the table. "We must all stick together and show the men we mean business."

There were murmurs of assent around the table.

John briefly wondered what the deuce he was doing before asking, "How do you propose to enforce it?"

Harkins looked at him as if the answer was self-evident. "We make them take a pledge."

"A pledge?" John looked at the man in disbelief. "You think you will be able to impose a pledge?"

That seemed to take a bit of air out of Harkins. "So? Are you suggesting we do nothing?"

"Unless you can actually enforce this rule," John said, "all we will succeed in is making liars out of the men. Besides, I doubt the men will be striking again in a hurry."

"Be that as it may," Harkins said, "we cannot go easy on them just because they are clamouring for work."

"You will have to leave me out of it," John said. "But you can do as you wish."

"Aye, and we will," Harkins said, regaining some of his bluster. "We got to keep them on their toes. It's a war and we masters have to win it or go under."

"Hear, hear!" the men thumped the table and signalled for more drinks.

John shook his head and tossed back his whiskey. It was useless to reason with them. Not when they were flushed from having crushed the strike. And certainly not when they were in their cups.

"I heard Nicholas Higgins was seen at Marlborough Mills," Slickson spoke in the lull, looking lazily at John.

The men around the table turned to John with surprise and a trifle worriedly.

"Well?" someone asked.

"If you are trying to ask whether I have taken Higgins on," he said to Slickson, "I have not."

The men visibly relaxed but Slickson was not done. "That's not all I heard," he said, flaring his nostrils at him, "I heard it was Mrs Thornton who had brought him to the mill."

In the ensuing silence, the men shifted uncomfortably while Grimsby stood straighter and taller, and protectively, he imagined. Only Slickson was leaning back in his chair, blowing smoke in the air, looking satisfied. If he hadn't known before, John knew it now. Slickson hated him. The dislike was rooted in professional competitiveness and John's refusal to support any of his underhand schemes. Slickson fancied himself some sort of Machiavelli but lacked the courage and imagination for any sustained tactic. Instead, he resorted to petty villainy and taunts but this crossed a line.

John managed to keep his expression neutral. Anger was, however, kindling inside him. "Your point?" he asked, setting his glass down carefully.

"You surprise me, Thornton," he said, smiling facetiously. "Surely you don't allow your wife to associate with the workers."

"What if I do?" he asked with deceptive calm.

Slickson's insinuating, slimy façade cracked at that. "Come now," he rallied with a forced laugh to ease the tension. "It would hardly present a united front if your wife is seen sympathising with the workers."

"You didn't seem to care about a united front when you were ready to give in to the striker's demands."

"I was trying to protect my business. Same as everyone here." He gave a quick glance around the table for support. "But what you are allowing is dangerous."

"Are you telling me it is more dangerous than playing tricks on your workers and deliberately deceiving them?"

"I am merely trying to warn you," he said all stilted dignity now. "All this misguided charity and sympathy is what makes them forget their place. Encourage it and you might as well hand over your mill to the union."

John'd had enough. "I know that," he interrupted curtly. "Your concern is unnecessary."

"Come now, Slickson," Henderson intervened. "Leave it alone. Let the women do their little charities."

"Better than shopping trips," Collingbrook said feelingly. "You won't believe the bills. Might as well buy a Harrison with that money."

There were usual noises of heartfelt agreement and commiseration as the men shook their heads. "Women."

The conversation gradually resumed and everyone, including Slickson, behaved as if the two hadn't come to blows a minute ago.

"You took his remarks well," Henderson said as the dinner came to a close and the men began shuffling out of the room.

John wouldn't say that. He had been a hair's breadth away from tossing Slickson out but doing that would have only lent credence to his tirade. But that hadn't been the only reason. If he were to be completely honest, there had been a thread of truth in Slickson's baiting that he couldn't deny or ignore. The fact was even though he had allowed it, he had a great deal of misgiving about Margaret's visits to Princeton and her close connection with the workers.

He was being a rather lenient husband, he realised, never asking where she went or what she did, unwilling to risk the ground that he had gained with her. He had wanted to tell her that it was not her place to stop a grown man from going to a gin-shop. Or associating with one who visited such places but he had held his tongue. He couldn't find it in him to reproach her for her simple, straight-forward kindness and while he had no sympathy for the union leader, he was not so callous to not feel sorry for his loss and the girl, he remembered, had been a spinner in his mill. Regardless, he could no longer allow her to continue visiting Princeton. It was hardly appropriate or safe for her to do so.

He opened the door to the master suite to find Margaret shuffling about at the table, opening and shutting drawers. She was in her nightgown, her feet bare. Her hair was open and it lay along her back and over one shoulder in a gorgeous, gleaming fall.

He said her name and she spun around, startled. "Oh!"

"What are you looking for?" he asked.

"I ran out of writing paper," she said, a little breathless. "I was writing to Edith."

"At this hour?"

She lifted one slender shoulder in a vague half-shrug.

He stepped inside, closed the door behind him and turned to face her. They stood looking at each other, each aware that it was night and that they were alone outside their bedrooms. Silence hung in the air between them.

"Edith would like us to visit London," she said, breaking it. "She fears that Sholto has quite forgotten me. And my aunt has returned from Italy. She couldn't attend the wedding and I think she would like to meet me . . . meet us."

"Would you like to visit them?"

"Oh, I am not sure," she said uncertainly. "I mean aren't things still quite busy at the mill?"

"The mill is always busy," he replied. "We have caught up on those large orders I told you about so I can spare a few days if you wish to go."

She looked indecisive. "I'll let you know."

Another silence and then, "Edith mentioned about the Crystal Palace," she said. "She wrote that she saw fabric from Marlborough Mills at the exhibition. I didn't know you were showing there."

"The samples were sent some months back," he said. "I'd no occasion to tell you."

"Have other Milton mills been selected to exhibit?"

"No."

Marlborough Mill was the only mill from Milton that had been chosen for the exhibition. The mill had sent muslin, calico and gingham for consideration and all three samples had been accepted and were currently on display in London.

She gave him a hesitant, encouraging smile. "You must be very pleased. I think I would very much like to see how they are made."

"Tomorrow morning, then?"

She nodded, was silent for an awkward moment and then burst into speech again: "How was the dinner?"

He knew why she kept talking.

"It was all right," he replied. He debated whether to tell her that Marlborough Mill would not be enforcing the new rule. He didn't need her to think that he had done it because she had suggested it, he didn't want to set a precedent. He knew that he would have eventually decided against the rule without her prompting. But, on the other hand, it would please her.

"It is late," he heard her say in a brisk-sounding voice. "It is time I went to bed. You must be tired as well.

"You are forgetting something," he said.

He went to the small cabinet and took out a stack of paper from one of the shelves. Her eyes skittered away and every line of her body tensed as he closed the distance between them and stood before her. He held out the sheets and she took them from him.

He knew he should let her go, but he couldn't. He couldn't look away—her soft, long hair, the warm, ivory skin. She smelled like a garden, fresh and sweet, and the fragrance stole into his lungs removing the reek of tobacco that he had to endure all evening. Her unfussy, white nightgown glowed in the dim room, its shoulders, wide and loose, had slipped off a little to one side.

He tried not to be seduced by the intimacy of the moment but it wasn't easy. He was tired of being treated with courtesy and polite smiles. By now, he knew her loveliness and her warmth, he had seen her petulance and her temper. They were not polite, cautious strangers. They were man and wife. They had to start somewhere.

Unable to resist, he stepped closer and lifted his hand to touch her hair and drew it gently behind her ear.

"Margaret."

"Please," she whispered.

Two days ago, she had allowed him to comfort her, hold her but now, her body tensed in rejection. Feeling himself on the verge of anger, he tried again.

"Would you like me to leave?"

"I am not ready. I need—"

"Fine." Now it was anger, pure and simple. He turned away from her and headed for his room.

He heard her call his name, her voice apologetic.

"John, please understand . . ."

Ignoring her, John opened the door to his room and shut her out.

* * *

 **A/N** : Please review while I hide behind the sofa ;-)

-SQ


	11. The Storm

**-THE STORM-**

John did not come for breakfast the next morning.

Margaret sat at the table for a long time, staring at the empty chair, feeling wretched. She knew she had upset him last night and she deeply regretted; she knew he deserved better but she truly couldn't help that her instincts had made anything but a refusal impossible.

She had tortured herself last night over her decision, trying not to second-guess herself. She knew she had been right. She would have felt miserable if she had given in simply because it was expected of her. But it was poor consolation for she was equally miserable now. Somehow, she felt the entire blame for last evening belonged with her alone. She wished he would understand that her refusal stemmed from their strange complicated marriage. It had nothing to do with him personally. She desperately wished they could go back to their old friendship. Anything but this reproachful absence. It made her feel guilty even when she knew there was no logical reason for her to feel so.

As she struggled with herself, she was strongly tempted to go about her day as if nothing had happened. But she quickly rid herself of the craven impulse. Avoiding the issue would only prolong this tense, awkward situation.

Throwing away the cushion that she had been hugging, she stood up abruptly. She was tired of trying to sort her feelings out. Maybe she had too many scruples, maybe she was a fool. She quickly made her decision. She went downstairs to the kitchen and requested the cook to pack a breakfast.

Settling the basket in the crook of her arm, she made her way to the mill.

It was one of those changeable days—sunny, one moment; cloudy, the next. She suspected that it would rain in the evening, but right now, the sun shone even though the sky was gray.

As the multi-storied, red-brick façade loomed up before her, she felt somewhat self-conscious about her presence. She hadn't ventured into the mill since her marriage, although she had spoken with some of the factory girls as they had lounged near the gates, enjoying their break.

Looking across the yard, she noticed that it was less crowded today. The few workers who were there were busy moving the bales inside the mill and a section of the yard near the building was covered with sheets of tarpaulin in anticipation of the weather.

The yard dog came bounding toward her. Margaret shifted the basket to the other arm and reached down to scratch his ears.

Williams came out and took off his cap. "G'morning, Mrs Thornton."

She straightened with a smile. "Good morning. Is Mr Thornton in his office?"

"Aye. Shall I show you up?"

"Thank you, it's all right," she said, waving him away. "I remember the way."

As she drew closer to John's office, she tried not to think about the awkwardness of her seeking him out this morning. She knew what she must do and drawing a deep breath, she pushed aside her personal mortification and knocked on the door before her.

"Come in," his deep voice bade from within the room.

Margaret pushed open the door and stood in the doorway. John was seated at his desk, furrows carved into his brow as he wrote on a sheet of paper with his customary concentration. He hadn't yet looked up to acknowledge the visitor. His desk was strewn with papers and he appeared to be in the midst of something important. She paused irresolutely at the door, wondering—no, not wondering—certain that she had caught him at a bad time.

Further thoughts were halted when John finally lifted his head. For a second, he went still, his pen suspended above the paper on which he had been writing.

Margaret fixed a smile on her face. "I hope I haven't disturbed you," she said and ventured inside the office, hoping that he won't resent the intrusion. Lifting his pen from the paper, he regarded her with a faint frown, both resistant and curious as to her purpose.

"You missed breakfast so I thought to bring you something to eat," she continued.

His eyes came to rest on the basket. After a moment of silence, he said, "Thank you."

She set the basket down on a clear corner of the table, noting that he was completely indifferent to her peace offering. Spurred, she continued on to her real objective. "I wondered if you would give me a tour of the mill," she said.

He looked at her for a long minute and she resolutely held his gaze. But inside, she felt small and awkward. She had the mental image of her as an unworthy supplicant begging for good graces. It felt so diminishing but she pushed the image aside, generously reasoning that he was allowed his mood and willed herself to look past it.

"You will have to wait," he said at length. "I need to get this done."

"It's all right. I can wait," she assured him quickly. Then, to make herself invisible and to leave him free to finish his work, she walked over to the farthest bookcase and stared at the ledgers.

After a long moment, she heard the sound of his quill scratching the paper. Knowing that he had gone back to his work allowed her to finally relax and her awkwardness at having disrupted his morning began to slowly subside.

She stole a glance at him. He looked strange to her, sitting behind his desk, surrounded by papers, ledgers and ink. It completely altered her impression of how a manufacturer appeared at his occupation. It seemed he spent a great deal of his time at his desk instead of on the mill floor, directing and issuing orders to his workers as she had imagined. His studious absorption reminded him of her father who used to wear the same look when preparing a sermon or more recently, when correcting his student's papers.

She glanced away from him and surveyed the room. The last time she had been here, she had been so impatient and so . . . well, prejudiced. Now as she looked about, all of it seemed a part of him and therefore, intriguing to her.

The office was dominated by a large cluttered oak desk. The cabinets and shelves on every wall bulged with ledgers and files. The floor was bare, there was no rug and no curtains on the window. It was a utilitarian space, aggressively commercial and masculine. The only ornamentation was an old faded ink drawing of the mill that must have belonged to the previous owner.

Keeping her feet quiet so as to not disturb him, she went to a bookshelf that appeared to contain something other than account ledgers and quietly extracted a volume from the tightly packed row. It was an old notebook that contained dye formulas, accounts of tests conducted and analysis of the results. Samples of the dyed fabric were pinned to the pages. Margaret touched the dyed scrap of cloth, feeling the texture and the powdery colour pigments under her fingertips. Intrigued, she pulled out the next notebook. This one contained patterns for weaving, samples of each type of pattern and instructions for setting up the loom along with calculations of costs. The next few notebooks were all about weave patterns, each documented with meticulous care. The next book contained technical diagrams of looms with details of mechanical adjustments and improvements and a lot of complicated calculations related to speed and rotation. She smiled; these were all in John's handwriting. She liked knowing that his interest in the work extended beyond the obvious. His extraordinary care and interest in the minutia, the scientific and mechanical details elevated it beyond the merely commercial.

As she drifted along the shelf, her gaze fell on a large, fat book lying on top of a small desk against the wall. It was bound with good quality leather. She went over to investigate. On the front cover and spine, the name _Marlborough Mills_ was stamped in distinctive gold font. Inside, neatly cut swatches of fabric were carefully arranged in rows and stitched to the page. It was a sample book, she realised. Except she had never seen anything so comprehensive. Curiously, the pages were stuck together—

"It's a folding book," came the explanation.

She turned to him, surprised and pleased to hear his voice and then glanced back at the book. "Oh, yes. Of course." She turned to the last page and pulled it out. The folded pages unfurled. The style allowed one to see and compare all the available samples easily. It was clever.

Smiling at the discovery, she turned to him to share the moment but he was not looking at her anymore. He had gone back to his work, no longer interested.

She felt her optimism about this day waver for a moment but she made a conscious effort to not let such a trivial thing dampen her mood and went to discover the contents of the next shelf.

* * *

She was trying to be unobtrusive but it was impossible not to be distracted.

She looked like some over-bright sprite as she flitted from shelf to shelf, curiously examining the various objects of his occupation. The light muslin that she was wearing caught the dusty sunbeam coming in through the window, illuminating her against his cluttered old office.

Why was she here? He thought he had made it quite clear this morning that he wished to be alone. He needed to be by himself.

He had lain awake for hours last night, trying to shut out his thoughts. He had not wanted to think about her rejection or what it meant it. It had been late, he'd told himself, he hadn't been thinking clearly, he shouldn't have bothered her. He'd left it at that and besides that, he had been damned tired. This morning he just hadn't felt like sitting across from her at the breakfast table and looking at her. Work had always been his consolation, and he couldn't wait to go to his office. He needed the discipline and routine to settle his mind.

But now she was here, invading and disrupting. He had not expected her to seek him out at the mill. He knew that she was trying to make amends. The breakfast and the request for a tour were all conciliatory gestures. But he didn't need her regret or expressions of regret. There was something distasteful in knowing that she felt she had to appease him with apologies for denying him.

A tentative knock sounded on his door.

"Come in."

A woman in a work apron and faded mobcap stood hesitantly at the door, her face drawn with worry. She was clutching a young girl, a tiny thing with large fearful eyes.

"Yes? What is it?"

"It's my daughter," she said, propelling the girl forward into the room. "She does bobbin' in the north shed. She's little peaked today, but she can work. She's quick."

It was unusual for a worker to approach him with such matters. "Did you speak with Williams?"

"Aye. He askd t' send 'er home. But there's only three hours left on 'er shift. She can work."

John frowned as he studied the child. She was clearly ill, even though she was trying to still the shivers for his benefit. "Williams is right," John said. "It would be dangerous to let her work near the machines."

"She'll pay mind," the mother insisted.

"She is not fit to work," he said sternly. "Send her home."

"I can't afford t'." She threw a look of appeal towards Margaret and he understood why the woman had approached him in his office today.

Margaret stood silently, trying not to intervene, but she didn't have to. Her expectation was a tangible presence in the room.

"Is there another child at home?" he asked stiffly.

The woman nodded.

"If you can get her here within the hour, you can keep the place."

"Thank you!" the worker said and then looked at Margaret to include her in the gesture. "Thank you."

Margaret was turning to him with a smile—a little gratified, a little proud—as if he needed to be rewarded and recognised for doing a basic kindness. He didn't care for the implication that kindness didn't come to him naturally, that it had to be coaxed out of him. He kept his gaze on the woman. "Within the hour," he warned her, "or lose it."

"Yes, sir!"

When he finally turned to Margaret, he saw that her smile had dimmed and he knew that he didn't look very approachable just now. He knew he ought to get past his surly mood and disappointment from last night. She had decided to brave it out and seek him out. She was doing her best to reach out to him. He ought to meet her halfway. After all, he had been looking forward to showing her the mill for some time now; although he had hoped to conduct the tour in more friendly circumstances.

After swiftly reviewing the last of the reports, John stood up and collected the notes he had prepared. He held the door open for Margaret and after handing over the papers to his clerk, guided her to the mill proper.

As they went through the blowing rooms, the carding room, the hall with the spinning machines, the weaving sheds, he described the process of cloth-making to her. He explained the layout, the machinery, the techniques all the time, keenly watching her reaction as new elements of the mill were revealed to her.

He wanted to convey what this place meant to him. The mill was an extension of him. It was his life's work, his greatest achievement. It was more impressive than anything his father would have accomplished and more prosperous than his mother had dared to hope. There was no other mill like it in Milton—the quality of its produce unmatched, its machines the most modern, its workers the most efficient.

But now, walking alongside Margaret, in trying to gauge her reaction, he found himself seeing his mill through her eyes. And it changed everything. It wasn't that he was seeing anything unexpected. He knew every corner and every scrap, every nut and bolt of the place better than anybody. He had repaired the machines, designed the floor, he had even hauled bales of cotton in the early days. But now everywhere his gaze landed, he only saw flaws and faults. It didn't matter that he had installed wheels in all the sheds, the air was still choking with cotton fibers. It didn't matter that he had altered the chimneys to avoid polluting the air, he should have done more. All the improvements he could have made seemed to come upon him all of a sudden and the most inconsequential of flaws seemed grotesquely magnified. All the ills and problems of his industry that he had accepted as unavoidable and even necessary now became inexcusable and careless.

He tried telling himself that this heightened sensitivity was a momentary thing triggered by her presence. He objectively knew that his mill was one of the finest cotton mills in the country, that he cared and spent far more on safety than any other master, that his workers were better paid than at other mills. But it was pointless. He felt judged, defensive. He couldn't stand another moment of this. He felt protective of this place and resentful of her presence because it was destroying everything he believed about his mill.

"I think that's enough for today," he said abruptly.

They were in the sorting room and Margaret was looking around, exchanging greetings with some of the workers she knew.

She turned at that and he saw a flash of disappointment cross her face. "Perhaps we can continue another day?" she suggested and for a brief moment, he wondered how much was she to blame for his experience of the tour.

He looked over her head as a lanky, sandy-haired fellow, walking in and out of the rows, his gait affected and insolent, caught his attention. The fellow turned and something else caught his attention—a pipe.

"Leonards!" John shouted. "Put that pipe down."

Leonards startled and began hastily stuffing his pipe into his pocket when he saw John.

"I saw you!" John was already bearing down towards him.

At that, Leonards took off, shoving the workers out of his way as he tried to escape the hall.

John ran after him. Outside the hall, he saw Leonard sprawled on the floor, having slipped on to the ground in his haste and scrambling to get up.

Gripping him by the scruff of the neck, John pulled him off the floor and pinned him against the wall. "I warned you."

"I wasn't smoking," he lied. "I swear."

John hit him in the face. "Look at me." Stunned by the blow, Leonards dumbly turned his face. John hit him again.

"No. no. Please, sir—"

But John couldn't seem to stop. He could barely see in front of him or hear anything. All his anger and frustration seemed to have found a justifiable target as he continued to rain blow after blow with his fist. A voice finally made it through the red fog in his head.

"Stop it!" It was Margaret. "Stop! Please stop!"

"What?" He turned, snarling.

She visibly flinched. Margaret had been looking on with frozen, wide-eyed horror at the scene. She turned to him, her face pale as she looked at him with shock and fear.

Aware that there were workers watching them, he breathed through his nose, trying to calm himself. "Margaret," he said, his voice low and controlled, "go to my office."

She stared at him, outrage slowly replacing the shock, but after a tense moment, she did as he bid and turned on her heels and paced away.

By then, Williams had arrived at the scene.

"Did you hire him?" John demanded.

"Yes, sir. We were short of hands. Won't happen again," he promised and roughly pulled Leonard up from the floor. "Get up and don't come back!"

Leonards shoved Williams off as he struggled to his knees and then rose unsteadily on his feet. He spat on the floor, glaring at John with the glassy eyes of a heavy drinker.

"Get out before I call the police," John said.

Leonards wiped his sleeve across his bleeding mouth and left.

* * *

Back in John's office, Margaret stood trying to calm herself. Her heart was beating madly in her chest. Her hands were shaking from the force and shock of what she had witnessed. She had never suspected John to possess such vicious temper. She had never seen anything like it—such a frightening display of it. It was jarring; it was deafening, numbing like a slap on the face.

The door opened and John strode in, looking coldly furious.

"Don't ever," he began, enunciating each word slowly for her benefit, "contradict me in front of my workers."

Margaret was momentarily speechless. "Do you expect me to stand aside and let you beat another man?"

"That man would have burned down the entire mill!"

"Then dismiss him but to—"

"I do not compromise on safety. Fire is the greatest danger in my mill."

"So that justifies the violence?"

"It does," he flared. "You never had to see three hundred corpses laid out on a Yorkshire hillside as I did last May, many of them children. And that was an accidental flame. The whole mill destroyed in twenty minutes."

Margaret couldn't speak for several long seconds as the horrific picture he painted silenced all her thoughts. All she could finally get out was a helpless, "I don't like it."

"Nobody asked you to like it," he said, still furious. "Those workers are under my care. Their safety is my responsibility."

She could think of nothing to say. "I will leave you to it then."

She walked out of his office and the mill, feeling defeated. Her childish optimism was finally in ruins. She had been such a fool to think that he would be pleased to see her. Such a fool to think that she would be able to mend the rift between them.

She entered the house and stood in the entryway, feeling this ridiculous urge to cry. She desperately wished she had someone she could talk to. Fanny was completely out of the question being John's sister and Edith would have nothing useful to say and even if she did, Margaret knew that no matter how much she wished to, she would never be able to bring herself to reveal the details of her marriage to anyone and not just because her pride wouldn't allow it but because she would be betraying him in doing so.

In another swift decision, she grabbed her coat and dashing out again.

She had no particular destination in mind. She simply wished to be away for a while, off with her own thoughts. She felt miserable about her failure but she was also frustrated with him for refusing to see anything from her point of view. How would they ever find any common ground?

He didn't even seem to take any particular interest or pleasure in showing her mill either. She did not understand why. She had truly wanted to see the mill. It had been no ploy. She had been living next to it for almost a month and despite her curiosity, she had not ventured inside it, knowing that the mill would be incredibly busy.

The tour had left her stunned, bewildered by so much newness—the loud noise, the ceaseless motion, the controlled chaos, and cotton everywhere. She'd been speechless, trying to take it all in. It had been her first encounter with industry any kind. It was one thing to look at drawings of machines in a notebook, she realised, and another thing entirely to be confronted with it. But before her impression of the place could coalesce, it had been shattered by the violence that had followed.

Lost in her thoughts, she didn't remember how long she walked but her feet eventually took her to Princeton. Bessy may be gone but Nicholas and Mary were still her friends. She hoped that at least one of them was at home. She needed some distraction from her gloomy mood.

To Margaret's immense relief, she found Mary standing in the poky kitchen, preparing a stew and Nicholas sitting with the three youngest Boucher children, showing them how to make a penny spin. But she could not escape the events of today.

News traveled fast in Princeton and Nicholas had heard about the incident at Marlborough Mills.

"He deserved it," Nicholas muttered, not bothering to hide his disgust. "The idiot put everyone at risk."

Though she no longer disputed the danger, she couldn't excuse the beating. "The violence was unnecessary."

"It was necessary," he countered. "It's the only language some folks understand," he said with appalling casualness.

Margaret couldn't believe it. Nicholas was the last person she expected to condone violence. He had been so against it during the strike. Thinking men, he had once loftily claimed, had no need to resort to violence. She could have pointed out his contradiction but she was beginning to tire of this argument. She did not want to criticize John in front of others and reveal her disagreement with him. Their quarrels were their own.

"You're upset," Nicholas observed, noting her silence.

"If I am, it is for a good reason."

He heaved a sigh. "Aye but you know," he said, giving her a perceptive and philosophical look, "being right ain't ev'rything, lass."

When Margaret turned to him, he shrugged. "Just sayin'."

She stood up and went to help Mary pour the broth into wooden bowls and set them before the children.

"Have you heard of the fellow before?" Nicholas asked his daughter.

Mary shook her head.

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "New to these parts, I reckon," he mused. "Anyway, he won't find work in a cotton mill again."

In her mind's eyes, unclouded by shock, Margaret saw the man, Leonards, as he had lain on the ground, blood and spit running down the side of his mouth. She was seized by a sudden feeling of revulsion and unease. His glassy, silver eyes had been fixed on John and there had been such malevolence in those cold eyes, the memory made her skin cold. It was too late to wish that John hadn't beaten that man and made an enemy of him. She felt a vague sense of dread, a premonition almost and an almost irrational wave of protectiveness for John.

* * *

"I checked it, sir," the manager said. "Twice, to be sure. But the invoices don't match."

John reached up to rub the muscles behind his neck, resisting the urge to snap. This sudden inability to curb his temper was disconcerting.

He had been restless and on edge since this afternoon. Since Margaret had walked out of his office. The violence and the subsequent argument had shaken something loose within him, cracked open his carefully constructed indifference.

"Leave it," he said, keeping the irritation from showing in his voice. "I will sort it out myself."

John stood up and paced to the window after his manager departed. The sky had turned a hostile shade of grey and the air was electric with the threat of a thunderstorm.

Returning to his desk, he stared grimly at the column of figure that he had been trying to total for the last couple of hours. His concentration was in fragments. Still, he made himself sit down again and took up his pen.

He hated wasted time but when he tried to apply his attention to the work before him, it was Margaret who occupied his mind. It seemed to him he had thought of little else but her since the day they had met but never more so that lately. It was annoying how completely she had taken over his thoughts, his inner life. He hadn't anticipated any of this or wanted any of this.

He couldn't imagine what he had been thinking when he had convinced himself that he would be able to manage his marriage with Margaret. His plan to win her over, which had only seemed to require time and patience and consideration to her sensibilities, now seemed overly confident and cynical. He had imagined the marriage would be simple and practical; he would deal with disagreements sensibly, he would be generous and kind and she would be his. It would be a good, satisfying life. But now he felt too much. He wanted too much. How had this happened?

Hardest of all were the emotions, new and strange, and he chaffed against the awkwardness of them, knowing that they would be unwelcome and unreciprocated.

He closed his eyes and resisted thinking about what he wanted, needed.

Fruitless, the lot of it.

He had always been alone in all the essential ways since the age of fourteen when his father had killed himself and left him to take care of his mother and an infant sister. He had silently seethed with the helpless rage of a fourteen-year-old who had been both old enough to understand what was expected of him and young enough to be frightened by the expectation. That adolescent angry energy had saved him in the end. He had used it to discipline himself, to learn self-reliance, self-denial—all necessary and valuable lessons as he dragged his family out of poverty. He had eventually outgrown the anger but that early training had stood him in good stead over the years and even when he could finally afford to relax and to indulge, he had held fast to those old lessons.

What the devil had then possessed him to toss all that aside in order to marry Margaret? He was too old to be infatuated with a pretty face. He was a grown man; he had responsibilities, goals. He had never minded his aloneness. He had never felt any great craving for companionship. Margaret was the opposite of everything he would have chosen. He knew his mother would not have approved of her. She would have thought her too pretty, too idealistic, too young. Yet he had chosen her. And all for what?

He tossed aside his pen, suddenly out of patience with everything.

He stood up from his desk and gathered the account books. He paused when he saw the basket on his table. As he stalked out of his office, he wondered if Margaret had had breakfast or lunch. He left the basket in the surprised hands of the doffer boys who were playing with a dirty yarn ball, chasing it as it rolled around propelled by the strong wind blowing across the yard.

The sky had gone dark. He noticed that lights had been lit in the front rooms. He had just entered the house when he saw Grimsby coming into the hall. On seeing him, the butler came forward, a worried expression on his face. "Mrs Thornton hasn't returned home yet."

Alarmed, John grabbed an umbrella from the stand in the entryway and headed out. He was almost certain that she had gone to Princeton. He hoped she had the good sense to stay at the Higgins house till the weather cleared. If she got caught in the rain, there wouldn't be a decent place for her to find shelter in that district. Clouds rumbled overhead. His hand clenched over the umbrella as he lengthened his stride. The things she did! He hadn't slept the night before and all of this damnable day had been spent brooding about her and now she had to go off in this bloody weather. He couldn't wait to bring her back and shout at her.

He had just stepped on to the empty street when he suddenly came to a halt.

Margaret was on the other end of the road, head down, gripping handful of her skirts so she wouldn't trip as she half-walked, half-ran to reach the house before it began to rain. A loud clap of thunder caused her to lift her head and she saw him.

Jaw tightened, John opened the umbrella and marched towards her as the first large drops splattered on the ground.

She had slowed down, no longer keen to reach cover and was regarding his approach warily.

"Don't," she said preemptively as soon as he reached her, meaning he mustn't be angry.

He stood frowning down at her, feeling stymied. Grabbing her elbow, he turned her around, angling the umbrella to shield her from the rain as they headed home. By the time they entered the house, the clouds had opened up in earnest.

He dropped the umbrella back into the stand when she suddenly seized his hand with a small gasp. The skin over his knuckles had broken in a couple of places and a bit of blood had dried over the cuts.

"It's nothing." He tried pulling his hand away but she held on, clutching two of his fingers in her fist.

"It's not nothing. I will clean it. Will you wait?" she asked and without waiting for his reply went in the direction of the kitchen.

Chagrined, he went into the room. He tried to keep his annoyance in check but it refused to die. He felt riled for reasons he could not fully account for but nevertheless felt ready to rage. Jamming his fists into his pocket, he paced to the window and watched the wind lash the rain against the panes.

She returned quickly with a small bowl of water and a towel. Unwillingly, impatiently, he let her clean the wound and watched her as she rinsed the cloth and devoted an inordinate amount of attention and care on what appeared to him to be a minor scratch.

"I don't see the same willingness towards your other duties," he bit out.

She dropped his hand as if burned.

He felt like the worst sort of cad. But his emotions were so out of order, so on edge; nobody made him feel as chaotic as she did.

She bolted to her feet. After a moment of utter stillness, she took an audible breath and turned to him. She met his eyes squarely. "If that is what you want, you can come to me tonight. I shall not stop you."

He was instantly on his feet. The image that her words conjured was too demeaning and vile. "Your offering yourself like some martyr is not what I want!"

"Then what do you want?"

"I want you to behave like a wife. I want you to—" Only fierce pride kept him from completing whatever he had been about to say. He stood there, struggling, hardly able to look at her and yet wanting this woman to understand something he himself did not want to confront or name.

"What?"

"Nothing!"

Without another word, he turned away, the feeling burning his stomach like acid. He wasn't accustomed to finding himself backed into a corner. He needed to regain control.

"No." He stopped and turned around. "There is something I want. I want you to stop talking to my workers. They already think they can appeal to you to influence me. And I want you to stop visiting Princeton. I will not have you traipsing about alone in that district."

She was too stunned to speak for a moment. "You can't—this is unfair!" she finally said. "I refuse to—"

"I will not be defied at every turn, Margaret. There will be no further conversation on this matter."

With every word he spoke, her expression froze. He saw her rigid shoulders, the brittle way she was holding her neck, the unforgiving anger in her face but in that moment, he didn't care.

He turned around and left.

* * *

 **A/N** : I think I will stay behind that sofa :) But jokes aside, I am sorry about the delay. I had a few busy weeks at work and then this chapter proved rather difficult to write. I struggled with how much I wanted to go in John's pov and how much to reveal. He is a reticent creature and so to have him bare his soul even in a POV seemed off. So I edited and rewrote and edited again till I was reasonably satisfied. This chapter ends in a much worse place than the previous one but I believe things need to get bad before they get better.

Soooooo what do you think? Love it, hate it, annoyed, frustrated? Please tell me. My knees are knocking!

Love and hugs,

SQ


	12. The Letter

**-THE LETTER-**

The silence went on for days. They saw each other at breakfast, lunch and supper but beyond these now perfunctory and abbreviated meals, there was nothing. Sometimes he caught glimpses of her as she went about her day.

He had seen her the morning after the argument, standing in the garden with Newton, her shoulders slumped as she examined the damage from the storm. For a moment, his feet had turned towards the garden, to go and stand by her and offer comfort but he had held himself back. She wouldn't want his concern and he didn't want to deal with her silent reproach. He had turned around and left.

He felt neither anger nor animosity now though he could feel both those emotions radiating from her and with justification too. He could no longer summon the righteous anger that he had experienced that day, much less justify it. He did not know what had come over him to behave in such an abominable manner. He wished he had been able to keep his temper under control. But he had been so angry with her. She had made him feel wrong and dirty for desiring his wife. Worse, she seemed to think that that was all that he wanted from her. But her great crime, in his eyes, had been that she had been entirely unaware of the upheaval she'd caused in his life and that her own heart seemed untouched by these new and awkward emotions that were plaguing him. The unfairness of it had spurred him to retaliate and say the sort of acid things that had burned through the fragile connection between them and destroyed all hope of love, trust and peace.

And yet, despite these realisations, he could not make himself reach out to her, to apologise and to set things right. There was still the sting and hurt of her rejection and that hurt sat uneasily with the tremendous guilt he felt at his behaviour, holding him back. He was never this uncertain. He certainly wasn't prone to this degree of introspection. For the past sixteen years, his life had been busy and forward-looking. He was tired of these new heightened and chaotic thoughts and wanted to recapture his familiar, logical routine.

So he went about his work, spending the bulk of his time at the mill and his warehouse even though his constant presence was no longer necessary. He attended various meetings, poured over his books, visited the exchange, all the while trying to ignore the heaviness that seemed to have settled around his heart.

She rarely spoke to him unbidden and when she did, her answers were precise and clipped. He knew that she remained warm and gracious with others. He had seen her chat and smile brightly when Mrs Hamper had come to tea one afternoon.

He wondered if he was the right man to make her happy. Did he have anything to offer her that she might want? Margaret hadn't come into their marriage a willing bride. The marriage had been a quick solution to a problem and he had to persuade her that it was in her best interest. But it was pointless to wonder what would have been. She was his wife and despite the coldness and distance between them, he was too selfish and possessive to abide the thought of her with another.

He had hoped that things might return to normal after some time but those initial days seemed to have set a pattern.

It seemed to him that neither of them was capable of breaking through the barrier of hurt and anger and he feared that the slim connection that held their marriage together was truly unravelling.

* * *

Margaret stood in the hallway of the home in Crampton, trying to compose her features before she entered her father's study.

She did not want her father to suspect her unhappiness; she did not want to add to his burdens. But even as she thought these things, some small part of her wished he would know of it if only so that she could burrow into the comfort he would offer. She had never felt such a desperate and almost childlike need for comfort and sympathy before.

She had taken to walking for hours because she couldn't bear to be at home. She hadn't been to Princeton since that day. She did not know why she obeyed. And she did not know why she bothered to keep up the pretense of happiness. For the sake of her pride, she supposed. Sometimes, she regretted not accepting Edith's invitation to visit her in London. At least then she could have escaped the oppressiveness of her mood and thoughts.

Drawing a deep breath, she entered the room. Her father was sitting in his armchair, holding a letter but his gaze was fixed on the carpet as he sat lost in thoughts. He roused himself when he heard her enter the room.

"How are you, Father?"

He looked up and smiled warmly at her in welcome and she knew he was glad to see her.

"Don't you have pupils coming today?" She took a chair close to him.

"The Smithers boy is unwell, so I have the afternoon to myself," he replied carefully folded the letter he had been reading.

She glanced at the note. It appeared to the one that she had found earlier. "Is it from Fred?"

He looked up at her and nodded sadly.

"How is he?" she asked.

"He is well." Mr Hale gave a small smile, removing the spectacles perched atop his nose. "He is engaged."

For a moment, she looked at her father, arrested by surprise. "Oh, that's wonderful!" she exclaimed. She felt a genuine smile on her face. "Who is she? What does he say?"

"She is a young Spanish girl, Dolores." Her father gave one of those rare wry smiles that told her he found the name rather unusual.

Margaret returned the smile, happy to see the spark of amusement in his eyes. "But it is a very soft and pretty name," she said, and Mr Hale nodded. "It is such a happy news. He will have someone to love and care for him. Are you not pleased?"

"Of course," he replied. "But he is not content to marry and stay safe in Spain." He opened the letter and gave it to Margaret. "Here, read this." He pointed out the distressing paragraph. "Foolishness!" Mr Hale huffed as she read the lines her father indicated. "After all of these years that he's kept away and lived safely, he has got it into his head to clear his name. He says he doesn't wish his wife to ally herself to a man such as him."

Margaret read the letter and thoughtfully folded it. "I can't help think he is right," she admitted apologetically, handing the letter back. "I have always thought that he should have tried to clear himself of the false charges against him."

"They are not false charges," Mr Hale argued. "The charge of mutiny is true."

Her father was upset but Margaret had the sudden intuition that he wanted her to argue the point, to persuade him that Fred could still return to them.

"Yes, but even if the charge itself be true, they are exaggerated. He acted against authority because that authority was being abused. Surely he can explain that to the world."

"But how?" Mr Hale said. "I could write a pamphlet, or Fred could write it himself but who would read a pamphlet of self-justification so long after the deed?"

"What if Fred were to stand his trial?" she suggested cautiously. "If there were to be a court-marshal and we could find witnesses, he might be able to explain the reasons behind his disobedience. Would it not show the mutiny in a different light?"

Her father looked visibly distressed. "Do not speak of trials! You do not understand what a court-marshal is. It is not a place where justice is administered."

"But Fred's innocent. Is it not worth trying to see how much evidence might be discovered and presented on his behalf?" she asked. "Fred never tried to defend himself and we never knew where to look for proofs of his innocence." A sudden inspiration struck her. "What if Fred were to consult a lawyer as to his chances of pardoning?"

Though it warred with his caution, Margaret saw that the idea, hitherto unentertained, was beginning to take root with her father.

"I suppose there is no harm," he conceded hesitantly. "But we must be sure about the lawyer. A hundred pounds is a significant temptation. What if the lawyer gives Fred up to justice?"

"But we do know a lawyer whose honour we can rely on: Mr Henry Lennox. You remember him, Father?"

"Lennox… yes. Yes, of course."

"Shall I write to him?" she suggested.

It was a relief to Margaret that her father, roused with hope, decided to look over her shoulder as she wrote to Henry. Had he not, she might have hesitated over the awkwardness of being the first to resume contact with him. The letter was written quickly. She laid out the basic facts of the case and sought his legal opinion on the best course of action.

"Have you told John about Fred?" her father suddenly asked.

Margaret shook her head as she sealed the letter.

"You must tell him. He ought to know." Mr Hale became thoughtful. "Do you think he would mind it terribly about Fred?" he asked anxiously.

She looked enquiringly at her father. "What do you mean, Father?"

"He is a magistrate, he is required to uphold the law and his brother-in-law is the mayor. If the connection to Fred were to become known, it could become awkward for him. I wouldn't want him to resent the association."

Margaret hadn't thought of that. "He won't mind," she replied, even though she wasn't sure what his reaction to the news would be. "And who besides ourselves would know of the connection? If we were still at Helstone, people would remember. But here, nobody knows who we are. As long as it is between us, he needn't worry."

"I suppose there is some virtue in being uprooted," Mr Hale chuckled wearily. "I do not want to hope much," he admitted. "But if there is nothing that can be done to bring him to us, at least I can rest knowing that we tried all possible avenues."

Margaret rose from her seat and kneeling next to her father, locked her arm through his, squeezing hard and saying nothing.

After a while, he patted her hand. "Perhaps you and John shall go to Spain and bring me back a report of my son and my Spanish daughter," Mr Hale suggested with a small smile.

"I would rather that Henry manages so well that Frederick may bring Dolores to England when they are married."

* * *

"John! What a surprise!" Fanny beamed at him in welcome and eagerly looked behind him. "Has Margaret . . ." she trailed off with a frown when she saw that he had come alone.

John hid his disappointment better. He had thought that Margaret would be with Fanny.

"How are you, Fan?" he asked as he settled into a chair opposite her.

"Horribly bored," she replied, tossing aside her embroidery frame. "Where is Margaret?"

"Visiting her father," he guessed. He didn't think that she would disobey him and sneak off to Princeton. No, if Margaret wanted to go to Princeton, he was sure she would announce it to him first.

"I had hoped you would come with her. Is everything all right?"

"Everything is fine. Where's Watson?"

"City Hall. Shall I ring for some tea?"

"No. When does he return?"

"Soon," she replied. Her watchful gaze slid into a worried expression. "What is the matter? Margaret wouldn't tell me either. But I know something is wrong."

"Fanny," he said with mild annoyance. "It is nothing to concern yourself with."

"Don't tell me to mind my own business. You know I won't. Did you have an argument with Margaret?"

He got to his feet and crossed the room to the window, unwilling to have his sister pry into his affairs.

"Fine," Fanny muttered. "Do not bother answering but your silence is answer enough. It is so very typical of you and to be honest, I am not surprised that you quarrelled. Both of you are so very stubborn in your opinions. But surely, you realise that these are early days. Arguments are bound to happen, but it can't be that bad that it can't be put to right." She paused uncertainly. "Oh, say something, John. Am I speaking out of turn?"

He looked at her with a mixture of aggravation and affection. "Yes."

"Very well, how you conduct your life is none of my business. I will say this though, I love you and I love Margaret and I want to see both of you happy."

He turned around with a small smile. "I know," he said and firmly changed the subject.

And he did know.

This afternoon, he had gone to look at the finished conservatory and as he had stood inside the empty structure without Margaret, a wave of such intense longing and regret had swept over him, it had rendered every other emotion insignificant.

Self-deception had never been one of his failings but he knew that he had indulged in it long enough. Whatever chaos Margaret might have brought into his life, she had become essential to his happiness. Without her, everything seemed paltry and unengaging, dimmed. It was a difficult and alarming admission. He had never cared for happiness or especially sought it, just as he had never sought companionship. But he had felt a change coming in himself for a while now and he knew that it was neither avoidable nor reversible. He had thought that distance would give him perspective, would allow him to regain his balance. But all he had realised in that time was how much he missed her. He missed her even though they lived in the same house and even though he saw her every day. He missed her voice, her laughter, her intelligent questions. He missed the glow in her eyes as she talked about subjects that had caught her interest during the day. He missed her light and her warmth.

It pierced him knowing that he had hurt her and it was quite irrelevant that he had done so unwillingly and unknowingly. He knew he needed to see her and speak with her. He needed to end this hostility between them. So far, he hadn't said anything, done anything; he had waited for her anger to cool but the silence between them had gone on for too long and it was clear that she was not going to break it. Instead of waiting for her to return home, he had decided to visit Fanny, assuming that that might be where Margaret had gone. He expected her to be angry with him, furious, but he was determined to find a way back to her.

It was something of a jolt then to find an unexpected letter at home, waiting to be posted. The name on the envelope was in Margaret's hand. It was addressed to Henry Lennox at his Temple chambers. John knew who Lennox was. An overeager Mr Bell had shared enough information for John to know that the man had been a suitor.

Picking the letter carefully, he slipped it into his pocket, his mind burning with questions.

* * *

Margaret had been up in her room since she had returned from Crampton, staring gloomily at the wall.

She felt as if she were stranded in a tense, angry limbo with no escape from her wretched thoughts. Even after all these days, she still couldn't believe that John would treat her so poorly. The betrayal seemed so huge that she couldn't think, couldn't decide what to do, if there was anything that she could do. She had not thought it possible to feel so helpless and lonely.

She was angry with him but she was furious with herself for what she had allowed to happen to her. She knew she would not be so miserable if the first month of their marriage not raised such hopes in her. There had been friendship and companionship and tentative discovery. Some discovery, she thought now with self-loathing. She had been a fool to think that she was beginning to know him. A fool to think that he was different from what she had feared him to be. She remembered thinking how wonderful it was to be a married woman. She had felt such tremendous relief and joy in her freedom and had naïvely thought herself fortunate that John was so open-minded. Her stupidity was humiliating.

A constant taunting voice in her head kept telling her that all her fears about him were true. The short weeks of peace and amity were over and the long and difficult days of living with a man of uncertain temper had begun.

But she could not live like this anymore. She no longer had the strength to paste a smile on her face for the benefit of the servants and the world. The situation between them was untenable. Anger was all that sustained her but she was reaching her limit. Something had to change—anything—even if it meant destroying everything between them. What, after all, was there to destroy?

Startled by a knock on her door, she got up and went to answer. It was John. She froze in surprise for a moment. He never came to her room. He had been here only one other time, on their wedding night.

"May I come in?"

She stood aside to let him enter.

She closed the door and turned to face him. He was looking around, his gaze drawn to the personal details and additions that she had made to the room—the small portrait of her mother on the mantel, the jar of yellow roses, her watercolours, the throw that Edith and she had sewn together, the neglected sewing basket.

His gaze finally settled on her. He took out something from his pocket and put it on top of the dresser. "I found this."

It was the letter to Henry. She had left it downstairs to be posted. She frowned at him. "Am I not allowed to write letters now?"

"Why do you need to write to Henry Lennox?"

For a moment, she was surprised that he seemed to know who Henry was. But what did it matter how he knew?

"He is a family friend," she replied, her chin lifting.

She knew she ought to tell him about the purpose of the letter but she had neither the patience nor the inclination to explain such a long and complicated tale to him—not when she was so wretchedly angry and miserable that she could barely bring herself to speak with him.

"You can read it," she said, turning away from him. "I don't care."

She went to her sewing basket and took out the samples, unrolling and rolling them and putting them back, giving her tense fingers something to do.

Behind her, she heard him sigh as he let the subject drop.

"We need to talk, Margaret."

"About what?" she asked impatiently. "I haven't visited Princeton and I haven't spoken to your workers. Or do you have other commands that I must obey?"

"I wish to apologise for my behaviour. My comments that day were unwarranted. I should not have said the things I said. I have no desire to curtail your freedom."

"And why should I believe you?" she asked. "I had told you that I want to continue visiting Princeton, that I have friends there, families that I care about but you didn't hesitate for a moment before forbidding me from going there."

"I did it because it is not safe—"

"No!" She whirled on him, all pretense of disinterest falling away. "You did it to punish me, because you were angry with me."

"Yes," he admitted after a pause, looking steadily at her. "And I deeply regret it. I am sorry our quarrel got so out of hand. I have a temper and I wish I had been able to control it that day. We each had expectations that were in conflict and we haven't adjusted those expectations very well. But I do understand your need for independence."

"And what about my need to be treated with respect?" she demanded.

She saw him tense but she was seething with pent-up resentment and couldn't hold back the words that had been building inside her.

"You speak of adjusting? I am the one whose entire life has changed. I never wanted this marriage. I never wanted this life, but I accepted it. I made your house my home. I made friends with mill owners. I tried to understand your work. I tried to understand you! But what have you ever done?" she cried, her voice shrill. "Have you ever shared anything of yourself with me? Have you ever tried to understand me? What I think, what I feel, what I expect? You have only pretended to understand because it was convenient and when it became inconvenient, you dropped the pretense. But I have tried. Like a fool, I kept an open mind and an open heart even when you gave me no reason to. I tried not letting the quarrel out of hand. But not anymore!" Her eyes stung and her voice vibrated with the strength of her fury. "I don't care what you think. I will go where I please and I will speak to whoever I please and I will write to whoever I please. And if you ever treat me poorly again, I will leave. I will not care what anyone says, I'll—"

"That's enough," he interrupted, his voice quiet but sharp.

She turned away from him, dashing off a tear with the back of her hand. She wrapped her arms around her waist, frightened by the reckless threat she had hurled at him and simultaneously wanting to tell him that those were not idle words.

Silence reigned in the room for a long time.

"I need to be alone," she said, at last, breaking the lengthy, fraught silence.

"I understand you are upset and with good reason," he said. "The fault is mine. I know that my behaviour left a lot to be desired. But you cannot believe that I do not care for you or your happiness or that I do not treat you with the respect you deserve."

She knew no such thing. She almost said it aloud, but the bothersome kernel of honesty in her told her that even if his recent actions were in contradiction, there was a grain of truth in what he was claiming. She remained silent, wrapping her arms even more tightly around herself, wishing she could deny it.

"I was feeling . . . disappointed and upset that morning," he continued when she remained silent, "and then things happened at the mill when you were there and later when I got home, I found out that you still hadn't returned. I am not blaming you nor am I excusing myself. I was angry and worried and my temper got away from me." He sighed. "I should have spoken to you sooner but I needed to be away. I thought it was for the best.

"I know our marriage was unconventional. We didn't start out with the same advantages as other couples. We have lived separate and very different lives and it is clear that we do not know each other very well. We have never spoken freely with each other." He waited a moment before continuing. "I would like us to begin again, Margaret. I would like us to put aside our differences and get to know each other."

She drew a deep breath. "You are very wise today."

"Do you not trust me?"

No, she did not trust him. The anger that she had been carrying for days in her heart was beginning to dissolve but she had been too hurt to lower her guard so easily. There were still a hundred barriers between them. Things do not change overnight. People do not change overnight. She could not forget that he was the same man who had behaved so unfairly towards her. She told herself that if she forgot that she would deserve all the consequences.

"On what do I base my trust?" she asked. "Because of your sudden frankness today? Because you apologised? Because you want to start over?"

"You have no reason to trust me," he admitted after a moment, "but then isn't that the whole point of trust?"

She let out a disbelieving breath. "I need to be alone," she said again. "You have said what you wanted to say and I have said what I wanted to say. Now, I want to be alone."

"Margaret, I cannot leave you when you are still so upset with me."

"You managed to do so all these days," she retorted.

She did not understand the tangle of emotions inside her. His voice was so exactly like when he had offered to marry her—sympathetic and patient but inexorably forcing her along his plans, whether she was ready or not. A sudden thought struck her that she ought to have demanded more time before accepting his offer of marriage, she ought to have demanded a longer betrothal. He hadn't even bothered to court her during their short engagement, she realised bitterly. Everything had been decided by him.

"You are still angry."

She spun to face him. "I certainly am. And I intend to stay as angry as I want and for as long as I want. You expect me to accept your apology and forget everything. You want me to make things easy and fall along with your plans; I shall not. I have a temper as well."

The past days had been the most miserable time of her life. He had hurt her, broken her trust. She didn't want his apology or his explanation. She wanted to be angry. She wanted to sulk. She wanted to—

She was suddenly fighting tears, she realised.

It registered on her that there was neither anger nor impatience in his expression. She could sense that he didn't want to leave without resolving the situation to his satisfaction and that he had more he wanted to tell her. However, all he said was, "All right. I will not press you further. You are entitled to your anger."

She heard him open the door and close it quietly behind him. She slumped into the stool, covering her face with her hands and cried with relief and exhaustion and irrational disappointment that he actually left her alone.

She hated him, hated him, hated him, she thought miserably, though she did not know what she meant by that.

* * *

 _I am visiting London. I need to speak with Mr Lennox about an important and sensitive matter. I have a brother. His name is Frederick. We do not talk about him and have kept his existence a secret for many years. We do this to ensure his safety. Fred was a lieutenant in the Navy. Seven years ago, he was falsely accused of mutiny. You might have read about it. It happened aboard the_ Russell _. The captain was a monster; he beat the children to within an inch of their lives. Fred had no choice. He and some of the other officers stood up to him but the Navy called it a mutiny and branded him the ringleader and a traitor. Fred was forced to leave England to escape persecution._

 _He now lives in Spain, in Cadiz. Recently, he wrote to father about his wish to clear his name. He wants to be a free man and be able to return to England. I wrote to Henry to discover Fred's chances of proving his innocence at a trial and how we might help him._

 _I shall stay with my aunt and Edith. I have taken my maid with me and I shall return three days hence._

 _Margaret_

* * *

 **A/N** : A million apologies for the delay. It was not intentional. It is never intentional. This chapter gave me SO MUCH trouble, I could go on and on and on about it. I guess all angsty chapters are difficult to write. But the final scene turned out to be even more difficult than I thought. I wanted to write Margaret as more receptive to John's apology but the stubborn girl refused to cooperate and I got so frustrated with that because it altered a few things that I had planned for this chapter. But after much much much debate I have concluded that she has a point. She would be guarded; in fact, she should be guarded, but they are finally on the road to recovery. Thank God!

It was so much fun to read your comments on the last chapter. I kept going back to them as I tried to settle the debate in my head. I am anxiously looking forward to your thought on this chapter.

Hugs,

SQ


	13. The Visit

**-THE VISIT-**

Margaret was greeted at Harley Street with exclamations of surprise and delight. Edith rushed down in a flurry of skirts and wrapped Margaret in a joyful embrace. She made a little pout of disappointment upon discovering that Margaret had not brought Mr Thornton along but true to her sunny nature, she soon got over this disappointment.

Martha, speechless at the elegance of the Harley Street, regarded Margaret, who was treated as a member of the house, with even more deference. She would no doubt have much to tell when they returned Milton.

Margaret was given her old room, and Edith immediately began filling it with all manners of soft comforts and pretty nick-knacks with which her own abounded until Margaret reminded her that she was on a short visit.

"I have something I need to discuss with Henry," Margaret said. "Will he be coming for tea today?"

"Discuss what?"

Margaret hesitated, wondering if her father would like the Shaws to be involved. "It is a legal matter—"

"Oh, don't tell me about it. I shall never understand all these 'legal' things. Henry will come for tea, so you can speak to him. But come down and meet Mama. I believe she is back from her walk."

There was comfort in knowing that some things would never change, Margaret thought with rueful affection as she entered the front parlour. Her aunt was seated in her high-back, chintz-covered chair with her lap-dog, looking regal and annoyed with the dreadful commotion that Edith was causing in her excitement.

Aunt Shaw welcomed her with all the maternal affection, alternatively enquiring about the journey that Margaret had undertaken and admonishing her about the impropriety of travelling without her husband and only a servant for chaperon. But not being very familiar with Northern customs and Northern men of business, she seemed to accept Margaret explanation that John had been too busy to travel.

But it wasn't very long before her aunt recalled that she owed a duty to her sister and expressed her disappointment at her niece's hastily patched-up, vaguely scandalous marriage.

"We had such hopes for you," her aunt said, shaking her head solemnly. "In other circumstances, I would have objected strenuously, but what's done is done." She sighed. "We must reconcile ourselves to the match with forbearance and all possible grace."

Captain Lennox interjected at that. "There is no need to call for forbearance, Mother. Mr Thornton is a highly known and respected gentleman of business. His business is large and his mill is one the most prosperous in all of the North. Even I have heard of it." He gave Margaret a brotherly wink.

Her aunt appeared only slightly mollified. "That is all very well," she groused, "but I don't think the Northern air suits you. You are as brown as a gypsy. It's all the smoke and dust."

Edith gave Margaret a sympathetic grimace.

With the evening tea came Henry. He had come to Harley Street, expecting to find his brother and sister-in-law at home but upon entering the room, his face stilled and his swinging cane paused in mid-air when he noticed Margaret at her old seat. But he recovered himself quickly.

"Margaret." He stepped forward with a droll smile on his face. "Or should I address you in the proper way as Mrs Thornton?"

She returned his smile. "Margaret is fine."

They settled down in the familiar places with Aunt Shaw holding court and Edith pouring the tea and being made much of by her doting husband. Margaret and Henry receded into the background as observers of the domestic scene.

"And how are you?" he asked, coming to a vacant seat near her.

"I am well. Edith told me you recently finished your tour. Where all did you go?"

"Here and there," he shrugged. "Tell me about Milton. One hears so much about it."

"It is a very modern sort of place, full of industry and energy."

"Yes, but how do you like it there?"

"I like it very much. It suits me. I can be useful there."

"Is that so?" He gave her an ironic smile. "It sounds very different from the idyllic Helstone."

"It is. But I see no contradiction in admiring a place for its beauty and another for its energy."

Henry conceded the point with a nod of his head. "And what about the people? Is the society there not vastly different from ours?"

"Yes. The people are very forthright and honest. Everyone is fruitfully employed and works hard. They are proud people. They value honest labour and progress. It is quite admirable."

He nodded sagely. "Still, all that honest labour for its own sake does not seem worthwhile. It is a pity if they cannot spare much time for leisure."

She felt defensive. "John is a busy man."

"Evidently."

Her brows rushed downwards. She couldn't let it pass, even though it was she who had led to this false belief about him being too busy to accompany her. "You don't understand," she said. "He has the responsibility of hundreds of people who depend upon him for their livelihoods. His time is far too valuable."

He regarded her in a considering way with a half-smile upon his lips before nodding.

She wondered what Henry thought of her marriage. She had told him in Helstone that she was not ready to marry anyone. She did not know what Edith had said to him about how the marriage came to be. She very much feared that Edith must have cast her as the helpless victim of a scandal, forced to marry. But then Henry never took Edith very seriously and tended to treat her antics with amused tolerance. Margaret knew that he preferred to draw his own conclusions about her marriage.

"Can I speak to you tomorrow?" she said after some time. "I want your advice about something. As a barrister," she added.

Henry was punctual to their appointment the next day. He was quiet as Margaret relayed the story of Fred's career, the conditions aboard the ship and the unfortunate consequence of her brother's act of defiance.

Henry listened to it all with a careful, professional manner.

"I am not aware of a precedent where the Navy has pardoned an officer accused of mutiny," he admitted, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "It is important that there be a precedent. I need to look into the history of naval trials. If there has been such a case, I need to examine it to see if any of the circumstances apply to your brother."

Margaret nodded. It didn't sound very encouraging. She had hopes of taking back some good news to her father.

"The Admiralty tends to be rather close-lipped about these matters but I will examine this thoroughly," he promised. "It's a worthy cause."

Somewhat reassured and glad to have accomplished her objective—at least one of the objectives—in coming to London, Margaret found her mind returning to Milton and John.

In the quiet of Harley Steet, removed from the site of her turmoil, she could allow her mind to go over their last argument, his words and the meaning in them as she hadn't been able to before.

She had left Milton feeling angry, hurt and all sort of confused emotions that had no rational explanation. All the way to London, she had told herself that she was doing the right thing. With her eyes fixed on the scenery beyond the window and with her fingers clutched around her watch, she had wondered if John had read her letter by now. She had tried to not think of his reaction.

She had done this thing quite deliberately, knowing fully well that there would be some consequences, so it was no use worrying.

She was not a rebellious person. She was a dutiful daughter and a considerate person, someone with an even disposition. But something in John seemed to throw her off balance, pushing and pulling her at the same time. Still, it was very unlike herself, cowardly even, to leave without telling him in person. But she had needed time and couldn't stand to go through another protracted discussion.

I need to be alone, she had said again and again.

It had seemed important to her to go somewhere, to retreat. The alternative was to brood away in her room and be miserable. She needed to take her mind off herself.

She spent most of her time with Sholto. He was a darling boy and his childish glee at her arrival lifted her heart. He was the pride and plaything of both his father and mother but the moment he burst out into one of his stormy tempers, Edith would throw herself back in despair and fatigue. Margaret liked him all the better for these little flashes of tempers and gladly took him off Edith's hands, soothing him with a story or a quiet stroll in the park as welcome to her as it was to the boy.

It wasn't as if she expected to arrive at some great epiphany about her marriage while in London, but the old, familiar house and the beloved faces calmed her and helped her find her balance.

* * *

On her last evening, the family had gathered for tea. Henry joined them at his usual time. Since their conversation about Fred, she had had no other prolonged interaction with him other than that which occurred naturally.

While the family conversed, Margaret felt like a bundle of nervous energy as she thought about tomorrow. By this time tomorrow, she would be in Milton. She tried to imagine what she would say to John or what John would say to her but nothing came to her mind. It was all a blank. She could not visualise how things would be between them.

"You look anxious," Henry observed shrewdly. "What are you thinking?"

"It is nothing. I was just thinking about the journey tomorrow."

"If you wish, I will be happy to accompany you."

Aunt Shaw caught that bit. "I do think that is an excellent idea. I was not at all pleased with your coming by yourself."

"No," she said quickly and firmly. "That won't be necessary, aunt. I shall be fine."

Her aunt gave her a pinched-face look.

"You cannot be persuaded to stay a few more days?" Henry asked. "Edith could certainly use your help."

Edith was sitting with Sholto on the love seat by the window, trying to save her curls from the boy's enthusiastic grip.

"No, I must return. And Edith must battle it out herself," she said, looking fondly at the child.

"So you are looking forward to returning to Milton?"

"Well, Margaret," Edith said, craning her neck to look outside the window and with a wide smile spreading over her face. "You shall never guess who is at the door right now."

Margaret gave her a questioning look. But then, all at once, she suddenly knew.

"It's Mr Thornton!" Edith announced with a merry laugh.

Her breath caught. _He is here,_ she thought with a sudden rush of feeling. Her head went hot and flags of red heat scorched her cheeks.

"Ah," Henry remarked quietly, looking at her. She struggled to contain her reaction but her heart would not stop pounding.

"He has come to accompany you back, it seems," Edith said with a satisfied grin.

Margaret felt empty-headed and useless as she watched Edith call for the nurse to take Sholto back to his nursery and taking a seat next to her husband, arrange her dress prettily about her to receive the visitor, conscious that she had her reputation as a beauty to keep up.

"I must confess I am quite curious to meet your Mr Thornton," Henry said as he leaned casually against the wall.

Margaret ignored him. Her insides felt like an overwound watch as she waited for him to appear. The butler came in and announced John. She stood up.

And then there he was, standing in the doorway.

"John." She found herself moving towards him. "What a surprise."

He regarded her quietly. "You look well," he said at last. She detected relief, chagrin, concern and a host of other feelings in his voice and gaze.

The entire family was turned towards the door and Margaret could hear the silence in the room as she ushered John inside.

She took him to her aunt. "This is my aunt, Mrs Shaw."

Her aunt extended her hand. John clasped the bejewelled fingers and bowing with easy grace, spoke in his rich, deep voice. "Ma'am."

Her aunt studied him, her gaze wide. From the look on her face, Margaret could tell that her aunt had been expecting a moustached tradesman in an over embroidered waistcoat with loud voice and loud manners. Margaret, herself, had expected the same when she had waited for John in his office upon first arriving in Milton. It was embarrassing to realise that she must have worn the same look of surprise that her aunt wore now.

She introduced John to Captain Lennox.

"Thornton!" Captain Lennox shook hands with John. "Good to finally meet you!"

"We are so delighted you could come," Edith dimpled.

With a strange reluctance, she said, "John, this is Mr Henry Lennox. Captain Lennox's brother."

"Thornton."

"Lennox."

The two did not shake hands. She kept a pleasant and bland smile on her face.

The tea tray was brought in and Edith chose to pour while Margaret distributed the cups. Henry had gone back to lean against the chimney-piece.

"Well, Margaret," he said with his peculiar ironic smile when she brought him his cup. "It seems I was wrong."

Henry contributed little to the discussion but she felt his keen gaze fastened on her and John, leaving her feeling somewhat exposed.

Despite that, she could not help but feel a swell of secret pride. John was so compelling in his dark-suited seriousness, the gravitas of his presence was so at odds with the fashionable indolence of the other two men that they seemed to pale in comparison. Even her aunt had been forced to set aside all her imaginary and unfounded fears about Northerners and 'tradesmen' when faced with the actual man.

As for Henry, she knew that he had been planning to triumph over the unseen John Thornton. It must be sobering for him to finally meet him. His silence seemed to suggest that he too had noticed the pull that John exerted through his quietly confident presence. It was a confidence that came from age and experience, of being certain of his position in the world and of having dealt with matters of far greater importance than the opinion of the society at Harley Street.

Margaret never knew how the half-hour flew by. Despite her concerns, the first meeting between John and her family seemed to have gone well. Her aunt asked John all sorts of curious questions about Fanny and Mr Watson and Milton, while Captain Lennox, always social and kind, engaged John with his easy knowledge about the subjects of the day.

"I am sorry that you cannot stay with us tonight," Captain Lennox said when he found that John was staying at a hotel.

"I have left instructions at my office to forward any important messages to the hotel address," John explained.

"Quite so, quite so," the Captain agreed. "And it is closer to the station. You don't want to be caught in the traffic."

"Oh, the morning crush is quite dreadful," her aunt supplied. "Was it when we were going to Cromer that we had nearly missed our train, Edith?"

"Yes, Mama."

And so it was decided. Margaret would leave with John tonight. John had taken rooms at a hotel and as his wife, she must stay with him. But he must stay for dinner, her aunt insisted.

Since it was to have been Margaret's last dinner with them on the trip, a family-only dinner had been planned.

The dinner went off well as well. Her family, her aunt in particular, seemed to have accepted John. Margaret was certain she would have known if they still had any hidden reservations. She was as sensitive as an open wound on the subject, so she knew she was not imagining their acceptance.

It was all going smoothly, until Henry, who up till now had largely withdrawn from the conversation, decided to finally take part.

"I think the London break is suiting Margaret," Henry remarked.

Lost in her thoughts, she had not realised which way the conversation had turned. She looked sharply at Henry.

"Don't you think so, Thornton?" he continued unperturbed. "Doesn't she look well?"

John stared at Henry. Margaret stared at her plate.

"She has always looked well," John said.

Henry gave a broad, bland smile.

"Tell us, Margaret," he said after a while, "what else do you like about Milton, other than its energy, of course? I remember you used to admire the cathedrals here. There can't be many such classical buildings in Milton."

"No, but I never expected them either," she said. "The city is of a different character."

She felt caught being called upon to defend something which needed no defending.

"Milton is a new, industrial city," John spoke up. "Gothic cathedrals and Greek columns would hardly be appropriate."

"But aren't those better than a city of brick, plate-glass and iron edifices?" Henry inquired with studied politeness.

"Glass and iron edifices can be beautiful too," the Captain provided, oblivious to the undercurrent. "The Crystal Palace, Henry?"

"Well, yes, I suppose," Henry shrugged. "But you wouldn't want to live in a city full of such gleaming, modern but lifeless structures. Don't you think, Thornton? I ask the expert amongst us."

"It is true," John agreed.

"Really?" Henry leaned back and drawled. "I would have thought you admired that kind of modern architecture."

"I will discuss architecture with you anytime you like," John said coolly, "but we were talking about the Crystal Palace. I admire its ingenuity—the engineering and the scale—but I would not recommend a city of iron and glass buildings any more than I would a city full of cathedrals and triumphal arches."

Henry turned his attention to his brother.

"So Maxwell, do you truly intend to sell your commission and dabble in cotton?"

"Well, Thornton assures me that dabbling won't do at all."

"Ah, yes. It would take a deal more energy than you have."

"Don't be such a bear, Henry," Edith chided.

"My deepest apologies, my little sister."

Margaret could not stand to hear any more. The whole tone of his speech annoyed her. Henry could be a pleasant man and a sympathetic friend; he was the person who of all others had understood her best in Harley Street. But right now, he seemed to have fallen into a desperate and showy sarcasm as if he found life and the whole world infinitely tedious and not worth much of a bother.

She caught John's gaze from across the table. She wondered what John would make of Henry's attitude. His behaviour seemed to cast her in a poor light by association and made her trust in him to help with Fred's case appear unwarranted. She did not know what had gotten into Henry but she knew him enough to suspect that his disdainful manner arose from bitterness and wounded pride.

"Oh, nonsense! And double nonsense, Henry!" Edith declared and opened a new topic, which safely saw them through the rest of the dinner.

* * *

While the men were downstairs with their ports, Margret was in her old room, having changed into a simple dress. Martha had packed a valise for her. Edith was sitting on the bed, looking pleased.

"Not that I am happy that you are leaving now," she said, "but how lovely that Mr Thornton came for you. He must have missed you dreadfully to have come all this way to accompany to back."

Margaret didn't know how to reply. She closed the valise and gave her cousin an affectionate glance. She was nervous about finally being alone with John. All evening they hadn't exchanged a single word apart from the greeting, but she had been very sensitive to his mood.

After tip-toeing to the nursery to give a sleeping Sholto a farewell kiss, Margaret made her way downstairs. Her aunt had retired to her room after dinner and Margret and John had already made their farewells to her. That left Edith and Captain Lennox and Henry.

There was a great deal of noise and laughter as they took their leave.

"You must come for a longer visit next time," Edith said as she hugged Margaret. "And you must stay with us."

John and Captain Lennox shook hands. They seemed to have gotten along reasonably well. Henry stood quietly to the side, watching them all.

She was still miffed with him. He had displayed a side of him that had often repelled her—jaded, sarcastic, self-conscious. But at the last moment, the real Henry broke through the act.

"I have behaved badly, haven't I?" he asked with a rueful smile. "I do have a heart, notwithstanding all this good-for-nothing way of talking. You must forgive me. I am happy for you, Margaret, truly, I am."

"Henry . . ." she trailed off, disarmed by the admission. "Thank you. I am grateful to you for agreeing to look into Fred's case."

"It would be my pleasure." He saw John approaching them. "Goodbye, Margaret."

"Thornton," he offered his hand.

John shook his hand and gave a nod.

A hansom had pulled up at the door. Margaret allowed John to hand her into the carriage and they were off.

* * *

Now finally alone with John, she was not certain what to say to him. A sudden awkwardness had descended over them. She sat in with her hands clenched in her lap as the silent hansom made its way through London. John had turned his head to look out the window beside him. She felt somewhat unnerved by his silence and a creeping sense of guilt. Minutes dragged by.

"I did intend to return," she burst out apropos of nothing.

He turned to look at her. "Yes, I had gathered from your note."

She looked down at her lap. So he was going to be terribly civil about it.

"Then why did you come?" she asked after a few moments.

"Why do you think?" he asked instead.

They travelled in silence for the next few minutes.

Taking a deep breath, she decided to venture again. "I wish to apologise that father and I kept about Fred from you," she said. "It was not intentional. We rarely speak of him. It just never crossed our minds."

He seemed to understand. "It's all right."

"Did Lennox have any advice about your brother?" he asked after a few moments.

"He said there needs to be a precedent of a similar pardoning. He would look into it."

He frowned in thought but didn't say anything.

"I'm sorry about Henry," she said hesitantly but feeling the need to address it. "He had no cause to behave in such a manner."

"Didn't he?"

She remained silent. She supposed nothing much escaped John.

"He is a fool," John said without any particular vehemence but the dismissal in his voice was clear.

Henry was not a fool, but he had behaved like one tonight and she did not wish to take any further responsibility for his actions, so she kept quiet.

The hotel where John had taken rooms was in Jermyn Street. It was an elegant three-storied Georgian building and looked inviting and efficient.

A porter came forward as soon as they entered the hotel but John waved him off.

"Mr Thornton," the young man at the reception area greeted them. "Good evening, sir."

John stopped to ask the receptionist if there were any letters or telegrams for him.

"No, sir," the man replied, quickly sorting through the mails. "There haven't been any new posts since yesterday."

Margaret had only been half-listening but the statement caught her attention. Her brows wrinkled in question. "When did you arrive in London?" she asked John.

There was a beat of silence. "The same day as you."

She gave him a stunned glance. As John guided her to the staircase and the floor where their room was located, she remained in a dazed silence, trying to absorb the news. Her heart twisted with uncertainty. He must have set out for London immediately after he'd read her letter.

John led her to their room and as soon as they had stepped inside and he'd shut the door, she turned to him.

"Why?" she asked.

He moved across the room to place her valise on a table. He turned to face her and crossed his arms across his chest. "I had some notion of dragging you back to Milton and demonstrating my authority."

She looked at him, for a moment aghast. But then she paused, studying him. She was learning to read him, she thought as she saw the twist of self-derision in his lips. He may be able to view it dispassionately now but he must have been livid with her. Livid enough to come to London, she realised.

"Then why didn't you?" she asked unable to resist.

"It didn't seem very wise upon later reflection. Why did you leave?"

"I needed some time to think," she said. "And I needed to find out about Fred."

"And you couldn't do either of those from Milton?"

"I needed some time _away_ ," she said. "I am sorry. It was wrong of me to come here without telling you in person, but you would not have agreed had I told you and I didn't want another argument."

"You'd already decided what I would and would not have agreed to."

"You would never have agreed to it."

He just stared at her and she could see that she had spoken the truth.

"I need your word that you will never do such a thing again."

"It was never my intention to cause you to worry or to upset you," she said, guilt making her voice indignant. "I had explained everything in the letter. It is an easy journey to London, and I took Martha with me. I was perfectly safe. Edith travelled with Sholto for our wedding. And I was going to return tomorrow. I have the tickets with me."

"I need your word."

She stared at him a moment. "You have my word."

He saw his shoulders slowly relax and muscles of his jaw ease; watching it, she too could feel the tension and worry of the past few weeks drain away from her. Although she never wanted to repeat it, she wondered at the difference that a few days of absence made. It had allowed each of them to reflect, to put behind the nasty quarrel. There were still things to be discussed between them but at least now they could start on an even keel.

John opened the door to the bedroom and Margaret followed inside. He carried her bag and placed it next to the small vanity. The bedroom was a handsomely appointed room with a large wardrobe, a washstand, the vanity table and a single bed that she tried not to look at overmuch.

"You can prepare for bed, I will be outside," he said and went back to the sitting area, closing the door behind him.

Alone, she allowed herself to gaze at the bed. It was big enough that two people could sleep comfortably in it but the thought of sharing a bed with John sent heat down her body. Well, what of it—she thought, irritated with herself. They were married, so of course, it was expected they would share a bed. There was no need to be missish about it.

Turning around, she briskly opened her bag and took out her nightgown and robe. After she had washed and changed into them, she sat down in front of the mirror and began unpinning her hair.

She was brushing her hair when she heard a knock on the door before John entered the bedroom. He had removed his cravat.

"Do you have everything you need?" he asked.

"Yes. Thank you."

"If you wish, I will sleep—"

"No. There is no need."

Gathering her hair over one shoulder, she began plaiting it with quick fingers. Behind her, she heard John unlatch his bag and prepare for the night.

Securing the end of her braid with a ribbon, she turned in her seat and halted abruptly, going still. John had taken off his coat and his waistcoat and had propped his foot on a stool to remove his shoe. A flush rose up her face at the unconscious, yet striking masculinity of the posture. He had placed an elbow on the raised knee while bending forward to unbuckle his shoe with the other hand. She could not tear her gaze away from him. The white shirt stretched over his powerful shoulders and upper back; the trouser braces dangling past his hips; the dark, straining cloth of the trousers emphasizing the strong lines of his leg, the musculature underneath the fabric. Feeling her face burn hot, she swiftly turned away. She dimmed the lamp and went to her chosen side of the bed.

Quietly shrugging off her robe, she turned back the bedcover and slipped inside. She lay on her side with one hand tucked under the pillow beneath her head and stared straight ahead.

The room was in shadows and silent and against that silence, she could hear his movements. She lay still, not daring to breathe as she followed every sound of his night-time ritual. She heard a cool metal sound as he removed his cufflinks and dropped them into a tray. Next came the rustling of clothes as he discarded his shirt. A splash of water as he washed his face and hands at the wash-stand. Had he taken out a nightshirt from his bag, she wondered. She couldn't think.

He picked up the remaining lamp and brought it to his side of the bed, plunging her side of the room in shadows. And then the room became dark as he turned down the lamp.

The mattress sank beneath his weight as he sat at the edge of the bed and then lay down. The bed suddenly didn't seem very large. The scent of fresh, clean soap curled up to her and inundated her senses.

"Good night, Margaret."

"Good night."

* * *

 **A/N** : Not a very long chapter but a key chapter. Eagerly looking forward to your thoughts. Review, review, review!

-SQ


	14. The Shore

**-THE SHORE-**

John lay on his back, one hand resting behind his head, staring at the shadowy ceiling. He had slept only for a few hours. He couldn't seem to settle.

He rolled to his elbow, careful not to disturb the mattress with his movement. Margaret had been awake for a long time last night before she'd finally drifted off to sleep. She slept soundly now, he could hear the faint whisper of her breathing.

He rose from the bed and walked to the window. Quietly so as not to wake her, he pulled aside the curtains. Pale light entered the room. It was not yet dawn but already the shop boys were bustling about the street. He watched for a long time as the boys opened the shuttered store windows and set up the awnings before running out again and returning with firewood and other supplies for the day. Soon the fires and lamps would be lit to drive out the night time chill and early morning darkness. It was a routine he was all too familiar with.

Watching it all, he couldn't help but wonder how his life would have been if his father had been alive. He imagined he would have been living a perfectly ordinary life. He had been a perfectly ordinary boy, good at his studies and games and with enough mischief in him to get into occasional trouble; he was respectful towards his father, gallant towards his mother and full of uncomplicated wonder and love for the pink-faced, squalling infant sister he was allowed to hold for ten minutes every morning. He would have finished his school and gone to Cambridge and returned, his head full of big ideas, to manage his father's business.

He leaned against the window frame, looking out. Would he have run into Margaret in that perfectly ordinary life, he wondered. Would she have come to Milton? Or would he have married a woman from a suitable Milton family long before that? It seemed possible.

He glanced back into the room, towards the bed. Only her shiny head of hair and the curve of her shoulder were visible as she lay on to her side, facing away from him.

He had been surprised that she'd agreed to share the bed. He suspected practicality and courtesy had led to the offer—she wouldn't have thought it fair to consign him to the sitting room. It was after all his room and his bed, even if temporarily; he had been sleeping in it for the past two nights.

But he was also very aware that this was a big step for her, even if all they had done was sleep in the same bed. There had been this sense that some barrier that she held between them had dissolved. That she was not going to hold herself so far away from him. He did not know what had brought about this change, but he was glad for it.

It was so far removed from what he had felt when he had set out for London. He had told her the truth last night: he had every intention of dragging her back to Milton. He had been driven by worry and fear and unbelievable fury that she would dare to do such a foolish and utterly unnecessary thing. She had sounded so infuriatingly calm and practical in her letter, almost blasé, as if running away from her home and her husband was no great matter. It had enraged him beyond all measure.

But hours later, alone in the train compartment, when he imagined confronting her in London, mere hours after her own arrival, he saw how it would cause needless speculation about the state of their marriage. Her family would guess at the truth. He would rather resolve their quarrel in private and with dignity.

Warranted or not, she had felt the need to put some distance between them and perhaps that was a good thing. He had checked into his usual hotel and then realised that he hadn't brought along his notes and papers, his appointment book, his production schedule—things he never travelled without. He had waited to feel annoyed with himself. But he had merely felt disencumbered and free to do what he would have done even if he had been surrounded by all his papers: brood about Margaret.

She was not without grounds for her unhappiness. He had been so assured in his understanding of her. He had never fully realised the extent of her wounded pride at being forced into the marriage. He knew that he hadn't especially wooed her into accepting him. He had found it somewhat foolish and uxorious, this notion of courting his own wife. As a result, they had skipped all the stages of courtship and marriage and gone straight to being a firmly married couple, arguing destructively and with an endless supply of unspoken complains between them to feed their resentment.

He thought about their last quarrel. He had no desire to curb her freedom but he didn't want to think about her visiting Princeton. It was no place for her. The extremes of poverty and filth, the narrow, dark streets, and all manner of unsavoury characters. He wished he knew what to do about it.

He worried about her lack of trust in him. He worried about problems he could only guess at, fears she would never admit to him. And he worried about matters they had yet to resolve.

They were back where they had started. On their wedding night, he had agreed to give her time, and he had, but it had been empty time. They hadn't accomplished anything meaningful in those weeks. They were still strangers to each other in all the essential ways. He knew his behaviour had given her the impression that he was only interested in having a dutiful wife, that he didn't care about her as a person. He wondered how that had happened when nothing could have been further from the truth.

As he stood at the window, thinking, he noticed the first light of dawn streaking the sky above the buildings. He drew the curtain slightly to keep the light from disturbing her sleep. Things could have been much worse between them, he realised. He shook his head. What a deuced thing to take comfort in but after last night, he believed he was not wrong in hoping that they might finally find a path together.

* * *

Margaret woke to the fresh and crisp aroma of tea. She blinked sleepily and watched the gleaming dots in front of her arranged themselves into a tea tray.

"Good morning."

She opened her eyes wide, momentarily disoriented before she realised where she was and why. John was at the tea table. He was already dressed. Raising herself on her arm, she sat up in the bed, feeling awkward.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"Seven-thirty."

She hadn't overslept that much. Still. She could have sworn she hadn't slept a wink last night.

John crossed to the window and pulled away the curtains. Warm sunlight poured into the room, across the carpeted floor, bending up the bed and across her lap to land on the opposite wall.

"I ordered some tea," he explained, returning to the table.

She watched him cautiously, wondering whether to pull on her robe and trying not to feel self-conscious about finding herself waking up to this strangely intimate situation. In Milton, they had an entire house, separate bedrooms and servants to keep them from any situational intimacy. Drawing up her knees slightly, she pushed up against the pillows.

He brought her a cup of tea.

"Thank you."

Their hands found one another. His were warm, the fingers, strong and long. Their gazes collided. Then his fingers slid under hers as he handed her the cup.

He grabbed the back of a side chair and moved it closer to the bed and sat down. They sat without speaking for a few moments, drinking their tea. His jaw had the damp, clean look of a fresh shave. She was surprised she had slept through all that.

And then out of nowhere, she suddenly remembered. "Won't we be late for the train?"

He set aside his cup. "I was thinking we could stay in London for a day or two. We have travelled all this way after all."

"Oh." She looked at her tea. She had thought that he would be keen to get back to Milton. "What about the mill?" she asked.

"It can wait," he said. "William and the managers would be able to handle things for a few days."

He paused a moment before continuing, "I haven't spent as much time with you as I should have. I have been remiss but it was not deliberate. The mill needed my attention after the strike. But things are beginning to return to normal. I had hoped to bring you to London. We had talked about it."

She nodded.

"I had said that day that I want us to begin again. I meant it. We don't know each other very well. It was proven by our inability to understand and deal with each other." He spoke slowly as he stared into the space at mid-distance. "Somehow, the . . ." he paused, searching for an appropriate word, ". . . the physical act of marriage has become a barrier between us. It is repellent to me that it has become this way or that you might feel under obligation in any way."

She stared at her tea as she listened, reddening by the moment and yet, she recognised that this conversation was necessary.

He looked at her. "I apologise for the part I played in it. It was never my intention to make you feel that way." He paused. "I would like us to forget what happened and start afresh. I would like us to know each other better."

She had thought about it during her stay at Harley Street. That she would like to put all this unpleasantness behind and try to attempt things again. She wanted to better know the man she had married though she had been hesitant to make any demands. It had felt presumptuous at the time. But she had tried to know him. She had tried to use the daytime to establish some kind of connection with him, connection that would make him less daunting at night. But when she had refused him that evening, it had severed their daytime connection.

She looked up and saw that he was awaiting her answer.

"I would like that as well," she said quietly.

They looked at each other, recognising this moment of agreement and understanding between them.

"So would you like to stay in London for the day?" he asked after a moment. "Tell me if you would rather not," he offered. "We can still make the train."

"No, let's stay."

He smiled slowly, his gaze warm. "What would you like to do?" he asked. "We have the day to ourselves. Is there someplace you would like to visit?"

"The Crystal Palace," she readily replied.

"You didn't visit it?"

She shook her head. Edith had been keen to take her and hadn't understood at all when Margaret had refused. "Did you?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No."

He drained his cup and rose. "I will go to the reception and arrange for a carriage. Shall I ask for breakfast to be sent up?" he asked.

She nodded and he stepped from the room.

Half an hour later, she entered the sitting room. Breakfast had been set out on a small table.

"I made some enquiries about your brother," he said when she sat down.

She lifted her head to look at him.

"I have a contact in the Navy here," he explained. "I met him and requested him to make some inquiries about the case. I received this note just now."

She looked at the envelope, feeling gratitude but also some of the guilt from last evening. While she had retreated, not only had he come for her, he had also been quietly looking into her problems.

"You need not have done it," she said. "You need not have troubled yourself on Fred's behalf."

He looked up. "But it is all right for Lennox to?"

"Henry is a barrister."

"And I am your husband. I have every need to exert myself on your behalf."

She opened her mouth, then closed it again without speaking. She picked up her teacup.

After a moment, she asked, "What did your contact say?"

"I'm afraid it doesn't look very promising. An acquittal is possible only if your brother can prove with credible witnesses that the Captain was acting against the interest of the Navy."

"Beating children is not against the interest of the Navy?"

He shook his head. "From what I gathered, floggings and drunk captains are not that unusual abroad a Naval vessel. The Navy would not consider it sufficient provocation unless the Captain's crimes are more severe than that."

She put down her cup. John remained silent, understanding her distress.

"So what do you suggest?" she asked.

He seemed to choose his words with care. "We can try looking for evidence if only to assure your father and your brother that no stone had been left unturned but it would not be easy to find witnesses so long after the mutiny. Most of the crew would have been drafted off to other ships. Many of them may have left the Navy."

"So precedence may not matter?" she asked in a last bid for hope.

"It might come into play if it can first be proven that the Captain's decisions were contrary to the Navy's interests."

Margaret took a deep breath. "I see."

"How long has your brother been living in Spain?"

"Five years. He was in South America for a while. He has taken the name of Dickenson. He works for Barbour and Sons. He recently became engaged to Mr Barbour's daughter."

John nodded. "I know the company. It is a good, reputable concern. It sounds like your brother is well settled in Spain. I would suggest he keep things that way."

She nodded but she had so hoped for some reprieve for her brother. It was hard not to feel depressed at the way of the world.

Then, in silent defiance against all this, she lifted her chin and firmed her voice, "It does not matter. I am proud of Frederick for standing up against injustice instead of simply being a good officer. I would always take comfort in that."

His gaze was sympathetic. "Were you and your brother close?"

"No," she said, then realised how strange that sounded. "I mean, Fred is ten years older than me. The last time I saw him I was nine. He must have found me a troublesome little girl, as you can imagine. And then, he was away at school most of the year but I do have fond memories of him. I admired him greatly. We all did, especially father. Fred was very good at school and father had been keen that Fred distinguish himself at Oxford, become a Fellow like Mr Bell."

For a moment, she was transported to the study in the Helstone parsonage. Father reading aloud the school master's glowing report, mama reaching out to stroke Fred's hair as he sat at her foot with loose-limbed grace. Margaret remembered herself sitting behind father's desk and swinging her feet underneath her chair with childish enthusiasm, knowing mama couldn't see it.

She looked at John. "But Fred didn't want to be a scholar. He wanted to go to sea. He joined the Navy after mama passed away. I never saw him after that. I only found out the full story last year when I returned from London. Aunt Shaw had not given me any of the details and father couldn't bear to speak of it for the longest time. It was a great blow to him. I don't think he was ever the same after that. Sometimes I wonder if his doubts about the Church, his refusal to reaffirm to the Bishop . . ." she trailed off, recollecting how her father had paced up and down the length of his study. _The effrontery! The man's ten years our junior and he tries to treat us all like children,_ he'd said. "It was a mere formality but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He thought it was unjust authority. He was willing to suffer—" Margaret broke off, realising she had said far more than she intended.

John was listening to her in a relaxed but engrossed way. She stared down at her plate. She had never really spoken about Fred or her father with anyone, she realised. She had certainly never consciously thought these things. It felt deeply disloyal to her father, but she knew it was true.

She no longer felt like attempting any kind bravado, she feared he saw too much for that. She admitted the simple truth then, "I'm proud of Fred but sometimes I wish he had not been so brave if it meant father might see him once more."

* * *

It turned out to be a beautiful day, John saw, as they entered Hyde Park and neared the site of the exhibition. Margaret had been quiet during their ride from the hotel but as the crush of traffic increased and their carriage slowed down, she finally began to look out the window and take note.

After about ten minutes of their carriage trying to inch its way ahead, they did the only sensible thing. They left their vehicle behind and joined the crowd of visitors as they made the remainder of the journey on foot.

There was a hum of anticipation and excitement in the air as people were eager to see Britain's modern marvel. Walking along the Serpentine and the bridge over it, they caught glimpses of the building from between the trees until the ground rose and—

"Oh." Margaret had stopped.

The full gleaming structure—the brilliant transparency, the terraced revelations, the airy transept, the sheer size—finally revealed itself.

Someone had picked just the right rise of land, John thought. It was perfect for showing off the brilliance of the glass palace. And on this bright summer morning with white, cottony clouds scattered across a blindingly blue sky and a light breeze that set the flags and banners atop the building to dancing, it was quite something to behold.

Standing before it, there was a palpable sense of witnessing history and John was glad that he was sharing this moment with Margaret. She had caught up to him, though her gaze was still riveted to the Crystal Palace.

They passed through a pair of intricately gilded iron gate and entered the central transept. Inside, the structure revealed its secret. Columns of iron rose from the ground, branching horizontally in the middle to support the two floors and then continuing to rise up and spread, web-like, to create the arched glittering roof shining over the vast hall below.

In the center of the hall, stood a crystal fountain, splintering and scattering colourful light in every direction. Behind it towered a full-leaved elm tree, saved from being felled by the ingenuity of Paxton's design. And as if the architecture of the space wasn't enough, the hall was decorated with crimson and gold tapestries and colourful banners and brocades that hung from the galleries above.

He turned to Margaret. She was looking about with quiet wonder, her pretty eyes taking in the sights before her. Her disappointment and pensive mood since breakfast seemed to have receded. She looked happy. He moved closer.

"Where would you like to start?" he asked.

Before she could answer, the sound of loud chirping filled the air. She lifted her head to look at the roof and he was momentarily transfixed by the sight of her white slender throat. "Sparrows," she said. He looked up. Sparrows had come inside through the opening left for air and had begun to chirp and fly about the roof.

"Can we look at the machines first?" she suggested.

They went to the Machinery Court. Despite the noise and loud clanking of the machines, this section of the exhibition appeared to be the most popular with the people.

Once there, Margaret drifted towards the cotton machinery.

A large crowd had assembled to view the installations. To him, the fifteen machines, neatly arranged, were a simplified demonstration of the method. It lacked all the scale and the complexity of the real process, but Margaret seemed interested in the attendant's explanation.

"If you want another tour of the mill," he said, "you have only to ask."

"I know, but this is much simpler to see and understand."

"You found the tour confusing?"

She hesitated. "No. I understood the general idea of it but it was too much to take in, all at once." She regarded him with a reluctant smile and for a moment, the difficulty memory of that morning rose between them. "I don't think you realise it but a mill can be overwhelming to someone who has no idea what to expect. There is so much going on and well . . ." She gave a minimizing shrug. "Perhaps I should have said so and then you might have explained it differently."

He wished he could tell her that she should have told him but he knew she couldn't have. He had not been very approachable that morning.

Deciding to correct some of the wrongs, he began explaining the functioning of the machines to her. She remembered a good deal from the tour but unlike the last time where she had been silent throughout, this time, she stopped him occasionally to ask him to explain some term or with a question. She was mostly interested in the safety aspect, especially as young children were expected to crawl underneath to sweep out the cotton waste. He explained the practical difficulties involved but told her that loom makers were looking for both faster and safer means of production.

"I saw some of your notes in the office," she said as they stopped in front of the Harrison looms. "Do you collaborate with the loom makers?"

"Yes. They often come to the mill to see the machines. It gives them a better sense of the practical difficulties."

"Thornton!"

John turned around to find Mr Hamper, walking towards them. He was with a small group of men, some of them foreigners. John guessed they were the jury members for the cotton class of exhibits.

John shook hands with Mr Hamper, who introduced them to the rest of the group.

"You told us you would be too busy to serve as jury and yet here you are," the old man admonished. He turned to Margaret. "Are you enjoying the show?"

"Very much. It is very impressive."

They spoke of cotton trade for a while and John found himself being asked to comment about the recent strike in Milton and what it meant for the industry. He kept Margaret by his side as the crowd around them began to grow.

"Do you think we can bring about an end to strikes?" someone asked.

"Not in my lifetime," John replied. "But with time and patience, we might try to bleed them of their bitterness."

"You may try but I doubt much success," joined an aged, haughty French-accented voice.

It was the French jury member. He was a mountain of a man, domineering with shrewd grey eyes. He spoke English reluctantly and awkwardly, his voice conveying his disdain for both the language and the subject. But he had an old patriarchal and powerful manner and soon had everyone's attention.

"There can be no success when there are socialist," he declared to John but also to the gathered audience. "They make trouble for the employer and raise the expectations of the workers, inciting them to battle by causing them to see a satisfactory condition as unbearable."

"You find the worker's condition satisfactory?" It was Margaret, her voice cool, polite, seemingly interested.

There was a small silence during which the old man turned a surprised gaze at Margaret. She was the only woman in the group.

"You take an interest, Mademoiselle?" he enquired.

"I do," she answered.

He gave a humouring smile. "It is important to reconcile the workers with their place in society. One must not encourage ideas in their minds that lead them to war with their betters and ruin themselves and their employers with pointless complaints."

"I have some acquaintance with workers and their families. I don't think their complaints are pointless. I found their condition to be unbearable most of the time."

This was met with more silence. John saw that it was only now that Margaret was becoming aware of the faces turned towards her. He saw her straighten her spine, summoning all the self-possession she was capable of and lift her chin in the familiar gesture. "I do not claim to fully understand all the nuances but the underlying principle does not seem very complicated. Both masters and workers are dependent on each other in every possible way. Their lives are so constantly interwoven, it does not seem far-sighted when one party views the interest of the other as opposed to their own."

The man kept his smile, though it had become less sincere. "The young lady forgets that the masters pay the workers for their labour. They depend on us for wages and we depend on them for labour. But a master's role is larger than only an employer of workers. We have to deal with _investisseurs_ and _régulateurs_ and— _compétition_."

"Yes, but the relationship between the masters and workers goes beyond the mere cash nexus. The masters cannot ignore that their workers are utterly dependent upon them. The masters have complete power over their lives and welfare. Shouldn't it fall on the more powerful to help improve the condition of those that are weaker? Isn't it because the masters have overlooked their duties that has led to unionization?"

A look of displeasure came over the old man's face and he gave John a pointed look. John ignored it.

John's initial impulse had been to intervene but Margaret had asked a fair question. Besides, there was something unexpectedly intriguing about watching Margaret debate the subject with someone other than him.

Dressed in a pretty striped peach dress, her dark, glossy hair held back by a silver comb and with her small gloved hands clasped primly before her, she looked light, young and impossibly beautiful. But the cool clarity of her voice and the unwavering, ageless poise with which she met the Sexagenarian's gaze offset the youthful, feminine look. It was a public manner that he had seen her adopt before. The effect was intelligent, capable, untouchable. And something else as well . . . he hesitated but if he were to be completely honest, it was also provocative.

He glanced at the assembled people. He saw their surprised fascination with the pretty young lady who took a keen interest in male occupation and used words like 'cash nexus' and 'unionisation'. Words, he had no doubt she had picked up from Higgins. Was this that had fascinated him as well? He remembered the jolt of surprise when he had first met her. He had imagined Mr Hale's daughter to be an unmarried older woman, given Mr Hale's advanced age. He had not been prepared for the beautiful young creature in his office, chiding him with well-bred impatience and expecting to discuss rent and repairs with him.

As he watched her, he was aware of a possessive pride. This woman, graceful as a wand, sharp as a sword, fearless and kind-hearted, heart-stoppingly beautiful was his. His to love and cherish. His to protect.

"Unrest in the working class is fostered with such philosophies," the old man was saying. "All these call for improvement, these _réforme sociale_ , the workers would have been much happier to have known nothing about."

"So you would keep them in ignorance?"

The man closed his mouth into a hard line. He turned to John. "What does Monsieur think?"

Her colour rose slightly at the man's abrupt manner. She turned her gaze to him, an uncertainty in her expression. He could discredit her point entirely, he realised.

"I think there is perhaps sufficient justification for unrest in the working class, socialist philosophies notwithstanding. Our industry is young, but it has not been not particularly fair or kind to the workmen. It is inevitable that the workers would organise themselves into a Union to safeguard their interest just as the masters have formed associations and councils to safeguard theirs from acts of parliament and tariffs."

The old juror gave a small disgruntled sound, not pleased with John's response. Mr Hamper, after a wry glance and a nod at John, announced that the jury members must continue on their way. They all left after a quick round of farewell and the crowd around them dispersed without any interesting discussion to hold them together.

"Who was that man?" she asked, once they were alone.

"He is the president of the French manufacturing council. He owns one of the largest cotton mills in Nord."

She looked troubled with this information.

"You were not hoping to change his mind?" he asked.

"No, but there were people listening to him and I didn't want them to think that the workers' condition is satisfactory and that they would be happy if they knew their place in society."

She looked down for a moment, hesitating, then looked back at him. "Do you agree with him? I know you don't like the Union and I know you were trying not to contradict me but do you agree with him?"

"No, I don't." He saw the relief on her face. However, he said, more honestly, "But you must understand that he doesn't think industrialists are men without charity. He would tell you that manufacturers like him help the poor by founding alms-houses and installing canteens for their workers. But he also happens to be a staunch protectionist. He would fight you if you tried to regulate child labour or lower the domestic tariffs or told him that industrialism contributes to pauperism."

As he spoke, he saw her surprise change to contemplative silence. She turned to look at the place where the group had stood. Her confident public manner was replaced by a private introspective look, no less engaging, as she tried to make sense of the contradictions of the world. He wanted to know all these parts of her.

"You were not wrong in pointing out his inconsistencies." He waited, then added, "I enjoyed it."

There was a pause as she glanced down, thick lashes veiling her eyes. Then she released a breath of soft, self-depreciating laughter. She looked up, smiling. John's chest expanded. It was such a welcome sight: her smile, so long absent.

As they resumed walking, a few people approached them. They wanted to speak with him. Margaret chose to politely step aside but she didn't go far.

John conversed with the men, gave advice, made suggestions, his gaze never straying from her for long, and after concluding the conversation, excused himself and went to where Margaret was waiting.

He was glad to leave the Machinery section. He was not here to represent his business or Milton. He did not want to be pulled by the demands of his work; he wanted to be just another visitor today. He wanted to enjoy the exhibition with his wife. He wanted to . . . idle the day away.

He wondered was this really he who was thinking these things. He couldn't stand idleness, it was against his nature. But hadn't he asked her today to do just that?

So he strolled alongside her, happy to go where she wished, linger as long as she wanted, stopping occasionally as she examined some of the unusual exhibits more closely.

As they continued walking, she seemed to remember something. "I didn't know you had been nominated as a jury member."

He told her how the town committee had decided to name Mr Hamper and him as Milton's nominees to serve as juries for the cotton exhibits. But with the strike looming ahead and trade looking uncertain, John didn't think he would be able to spare the time and so had asked Watson to withdraw his name.

"Do you regret it?" she asked. "Isn't it a great honour?"

He shrugged. "Assuming the Exhibition committee decided to select me. It was only a nomination."

She smiled, shaking her head, telling him that she found him too modest.

They finally wound their way to the textile exhibits where he was pleased to see that the samples from Marlborough Mills were displayed to the best advantage. Upon her urging, he explained why he had chosen those samples for the exhibition and what made them unique.

She admired them for a time until she saw the Dacca muslins nearby. She stood in speechless awe before the airy billows of sheer fabric. He smiled at her disloyalty.

The fabled muslin was an oddity; a handmade thing in an exhibition devoted to mechanically manufactured objects. But it was a beautiful oddity—expensive, fragile, the threads so delicate to be invisible.

He peered closely. "It is not perfect."

That stirred her out of her rapturous trance.

"The yarn is uneven and overtwisted."

She gave him an incredulous look. "Where?"

When he pointed it out, she stared at it and then stepped back a little to take in the entire length and breadth of the material. "It doesn't matter," she declared. "A person made it. Someone spun and wove it by hand, thread by thread. It must have taken months."

When he didn't have anything to say to that, she glanced at him. "You would never give it a medal, would you?"

He shook his head. "No."

"But it is exquisite." She looked at him with a small challenge. "Your machines would never be able to create something so fine."

"My machines would never twist the yarn."

"It's the hand of the artist."

He laughed at the romantic nonsense. She watched him, suddenly quiet, her green eyes wide for a moment before giving him a slightly crooked smile that dimpled deeply on one side. "It is exquisite, nonetheless."

They went to the Stained Glass gallery. Heavy black cloths were used to block out the light and show off the paintings. Standing under the rich, coloured light, she turned around to look at him and smiled as if she couldn't believe how lovely this was. He smiled back at her.

She lingered in the gallery for some time, studying the paintings before walking to the railing to look at the scene below.

"There is so much to see," she mused. "It is impossible to see everything in a day."

"We can come again tomorrow," he suggested.

She looked below, where there were more countries, more stalls, more displays for them to explore.

She nodded. "I would like that."

* * *

After a light refreshment, they exited the exhibition and decided to stroll through Hyde Park. By mutual consent, they began to walk away from the stands and the noise near the Crystal Palace and towards the western end of the Serpentine where it was less crowded.

The day had grown mellow. The bright midday sun had dulled to a soft golden orb. They walked the path, growing increasingly quiet, each of them thinking about today.

She had missed this, she realised. Missed their strange intellectual friendship. What an odd thing to miss but it was unlike any friendship she had. The people she loved best were cheery and kind—Edith, Fanny, Bessy. She loved their openness, their sweetness—qualities she herself didn't possess. She was far too serious for it. Aunt Shaw liked to blame her reading for it. If only she would learn to dance and play the piano more and not be so stuffy with her odious books. Margaret shook her head fondly. The funny thing was she did like to dance, only she didn't want to make a production of it.

John wasn't an overly friendly or open person but he was intellectually open. He welcomed different viewpoints, he didn't feel threatened by it. He also had this incredible tolerance for the vagaries of life, the nature of people. She had come to admire that about him.

She wondered if she was being too generous in her estimation of him. Perhaps she was trying to compensate for all the harsh things she had spoken to him. She wanted to be fair. He had been angry with her, angry at the length she could go to make her point. But he had forgiven it.

As they neared the Long Water, she stepped off the footpath and decided to walk by the shore.

"We would come here often," she told him as she passed under his arm while he held back a low branch, "Edith and I, once a week at least. To feed the ducks." She smiled, remembering. Today, a paddling of ducks swam serenely near the opposite shore.

"Do you come to London often?" she asked.

"A few times a year, when I have to."

He stayed back by the shade of the tree. She stepped as close to the water as she could without getting her shoes wet and inhaled deeply, closing her eyes. There was just the lovely sound of water rippling as the wind blew over the surface.

"There is something soothing about the sound of water, is there not? In Helstone, there was a small stream behind the parsonage and you could hear the tinkling of water all day. It was the most beautiful sound."

She stood there, soaking in the view spread before her, wishing she could dip her toes in the cool water.

"That day in your room, you'd said that you had wanted a different life."

Startled, she turned to him. She licked her lips. "I am sorry I spoke so harshly. What I meant to say was that I had never imagined marrying so early or in such circumstances. That it all happened too quickly."

"Do you wish it were different?" he asked after a moment.

She looked down at the small, round pebbles, the water gently lapping at her feet, uncomfortable with the candid turn of the conversation. She turned to face the lake. She kept her head down, waiting for something.

"I want you to be frank with me."

He spoke in such a sincere and sympathetic voice, she chanced an honest answer.

"I am afraid."

"What are you afraid of?"

She didn't know how to explain her fears. They were such private things—she didn't think they would make much sense put into words. What if she had made too much of them in her head? What if they couldn't stand the weight of his scrutiny? She had held these fears too close to her heart to give them up so easily.

"Tell me."

She kept her gaze straight, looking out at the lake. A gentle breeze blew over the glittering water. She began awkwardly. "I am afraid that I would lose myself in this marriage. I didn't think you truly cared about what I thought or wanted. Your life is so firmly established. Your decisions would circumscribe almost all of my life. You would have all the say and I would be nothing."

There was just silence for long minutes before his voice behind her said, "I am sorry you felt that way."

After a moment, he added, "We have never talked honestly before."

She laughed, a little bitterly, surprising herself. "No," she said. "It didn't seem to matter what I thought or had to say. Everyone tried to assure me that I was fortunate that you offered, that I should be grateful. That this was the best thing for me." For a moment, she couldn't speak, the helplessness she had felt rose up suddenly in her. "I couldn't help but resented it. My life had been turned upside down and all people could think to tell me was that I was lucky."

There was an even longer silence this time. She turned to look at him, wondering what he made of these admissions. Did he feel he was getting a great deal more than he had bargained for when he had asked her to be frank with him? But the man standing by the tree only seemed thoughtful.

"I don't really think about it now," she said honestly.

"Except when you are angry," he corrected.

She gave him a rueful smile. "Except when I am angry."

"What did you want to be doing instead?"

She knew that question was coming and it frustrated her that she had no definite, handy answer. She turned again to look at the water, thinking, then gave up. "I don't know. I was going to find that out. I only know that—" She hesitated a moment before plunging ahead. "I only know that when we married, I felt as if so much of what I wanted to do was going to be left undone.

"I wanted to do something meaningful. Something . . . _more_. I had hoped to discover something about myself, some quality in me, something that I could put to good use."

She had thrown herself into things—people, schools, committees, Milton itself—trying to find a productive role for herself. She knew how circumscribed her life would become if she allowed it. It was a fear in her that at times seemed disproportionate to the circumstances, even to herself.

Again, she thought about Edith and Fanny. Fanny, glowing in the anticipation of motherhood, so very kind to people, so loving—a Madonna almost. And Edith, sweet Edith, dunked in happiness, eternally cheerful. Both happy exactly as they were. And there was she: circumspect, too aware of herself, wanting too much, a fool. She wondered if Aunt Shaw wasn't right after all, if she didn't create these difficulties too much herself.

She had no idea how much understanding or sympathy he felt for the things she struggled with, but in forcing herself to speak these things aloud, she was emptying out all the hidden, restless thoughts inside her and seeing them for herself too.

"I liked that your workers would speak with me. They weren't complaining about the mill or the rules and I would never encourage it besides. I liked that they let me into their homes and their lives. Nicholas and Bessy made me wait before they invited me, you know. I hadn't known that. I hadn't known very much of anything." She took a breath. "I hadn't known there could be such suffering and deprivation but I also saw such force of will to overcome and endure. I don't know if there is anything I can do to truly help but I want to keep on.

"I had thought that I might be allowed to do that. I was not trying to be willful or wayward. And you didn't seem to mind at first. At least that was the impression I got. That's why I was so angry and hurt. I thought you understood."

She jerked her head in surprise at a sound. She hadn't realise that John had left his spot near the tree and was walking along the shore until she heard his footfall, crunching on the small stones. He stopped a little away, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, lost in thoughts.

She watched him as he stood gazing at the water, the wind flapping his coat open and ruffling his dark hair, his profile quite, quite handsome. She had never really, openly looked at him, she realised. She knew he looked at her. All day today, she had pretended that she wasn't aware of his gaze on her. Well. She looked at him now. Took in the long, solid lines of him, his height, the shape of his back, the wide sweep of his shoulders.

Why couldn't she throw herself into him, she thought rebelling against herself. Last night, she had lain half-awake, half-asleep, her mind full of images of open shirts, dark wool, powerful shoulders, pocket watches with gold cover warmed by the sun. _The physical act_ , his words flashed in her mind. She drew in a breath.

John had turned towards her and as he came up to her she realised with a sudden insight that she didn't wish her life were different. She liked this struggle, within herself and with this man. She had never before looked at a man in a way that made her cheeks go hot and made her wonder. She had certainly never been this open with anyone but it had felt surprisingly good to tell him things that she had not fully known herself.

"All right."

She stared at him blankly for a moment, before she understood. He was agreeing to her visiting Princeton. Then, she registered his manner, his voice. It was the reluctant sound of a man giving in to an unreasonable demand and it riled her in a guilty, prickly way. It was not fair—to her or to him. Especially after everything she had told him.

"I don't want your reluctant agreement, John. I need your understanding."

"I understand but I cannot pretend that I am easy about you visiting Princeton," he answered. "It is not a safe district or nice. There are gin-shops, thieves and drunks on every street corner."

She didn't know what to say for a moment. It was not the Princeton she knew. "I do not idly wander the place as you seem to think," she said reasonably. "I only go to Francis Street, where the workers live. There are families that live there. Families that I know." She waited for him, but he seemed worried in a way she did not understand.

She knew she was safe. Nicholas would have said something otherwise. But he continued staring into the distance, listening but not accepting. "Honestly, John. I will be fine."

When he didn't say anything for a time, she felt horribly let down. Somewhat stiffly, she suggested, "You don't need to worry about me."

At that, he turned to her with such a sharp, reprimanding look, she halted in her tracks. "If I worry about you it is because I care about you so much, because you are important to me. It is my responsibility to keep you safe. You wanted to know why I came here. I came because I couldn't stay in Milton and spend three days worrying about whether you had reached safely or not."

Everything in her stopped. She started at him, speechless. He was frowning at her, frowning at himself too, she could see, arms crossed, not at all pleased with all the things he had admitted. But she couldn't look away. She longed to ask why, _why_ was she important, w _hen_ did he come to care so much for her?

They stood staring at each other till, disquieted, she consciously lowered her gaze. She turned from him to hide the confusion on her face.

Long seconds passed. She heard him sigh. "I am sorry." She wasn't sure what he was apologising for, the sentiment or the manner. "Shall we return?" he asked after a moment.

She wanted to resist but after a moment, she nodded not knowing what else to do.

All the way back to the hotel, her emotions veered from confused to angry and back again. Where was the man who wanted her to be frank with him? Why wasn't he frank with her? Why did he get to keep his feelings to himself when he got to probe hers?

All these thoughts were tumbling through her mind when they reached the hotel and she watched him take a piece of paper that the receptionist handed him.

As he read it, he went completely still. She saw his expression change, his grip on the paper turn white-knuckled.

"John?" She rushed to his side. "What is it?"

He looked at her, his face ashen.

"It is Fanny."

* * *

 **A/N** : A million apologies for the delay. Life just got in the way. Work, family, unexpected trips.

Anyway. The longest chapter yet! No wonder it took me forever to edit. Please let me know what you think. I live for your reviews and thoughts. You have no idea how valuable they are to me.

-SQ

 **PS** : In my hurry to upload this chapter, I forget to add a few notes. The French jury member that Margaret debates with is based on a real person, Auguste Mimerel. He was a jury member for the Cotton Exhibits at the Great Exhibition of 1851. I thought it would be fun to have Margaret debate him instead of John. Most of his arguments in the scene are based on his own writings and views on the subject.


	15. The Fall

**-THE FALL—**

They hurtled towards Milton on the very next train—an evening express with fewer stops.

The note they had received had come from Grimsby. Mrs Platt, the Watson housekeeper, had sent a message to the mill house. Fanny had suddenly taken ill this morning and had to be brought to bed.

Fanny was not due until two weeks later. Margaret understood that there had been some difficulty for Fanny to be with child. Even though all had seemed to be progressing well, the doctor had advised great caution during the pregnancy. Fanny had seemed quite well the last time she had seen her—what could have gone wrong.

Her mind spun terrifying possibilities of what they would find when they reached. She prayed that they would reach in time, that they were not too late.

She looked at John. He sat on the opposite seat, looking out of the window. There was nothing to see outside. It was all dark but he continued to stare at some far-off horizon as he sat in tense silence, his face rigidly composed. He hadn't said much to her since they'd received the note. Whatever he was thinking, whatever he was fearing he wasn't going to tell her.

It was around ten in the night that they reached Milton.

The moment the carriage stopped outside Mr Watson's house, John stepped out and went to the front door taking two steps at a time. After being forced to sit still in agonising suspense for hours, he couldn't bear to wait another second.

The butler opened the door right away. "Mrs Watson is upstairs," he told them, ending the suspense.

Relief rushed through her. But John didn't stop. She hurried after him.

Mr Watson had just entered the room. He looked to have aged decades. But John did not see any of that. His interest and concern were only for his sister.

"Watson." John stepped forward. "How is Fanny?"

"She is having the baby," he said, his voice haggard. "Dr Donaldson is with her."

Margaret rushed upstairs, removing her coat and gloves as she went. She headed for the room that had been prepared for the birth. Dropping her things on a chair in the outer chamber, she took a bracing breath and opened the door.

Inside Dr Donaldson, Mrs Platt, and a woman Margaret guessed to be the nurse matron were bent over a still form laid out on the bed.

They turned towards the door at her entrance, Dr Donaldson, his white brows gathered together in a frown, ready to object.

But the housekeeper spoke up, the relief in her voice evident. "Mrs Thornton! Thank God, you have come."

Margaret closed the door behind her. Her gaze finally went to Fanny. If not for the low moan, she would have thought her lost.

She went to Fanny's side. Fanny was wearing a sweat-damped shift and petticoat. Her hair had been tied back in a braid. She was sleeping at the moment, though not very peacefully. Her brows were furrowed and Mrs Platt was wiping it with a cloth.

Margaret sat next to her friend, taking the cloth from the housekeeper. From the conversation between the doctor and the matron, she gathered that the birth was not proceeding as expecting.

"Her pains aren't strong," the matron was informing the doctor. "It's been more than fourteen hours."

The doctor's brows lowered over his eyes. "The contractions are weak but they have not ceased. The labour is proceeding slowly but naturally." He took out his watch and frowned at it. "Let me know if there is any change."

After the doctor left the room, the housekeeper came to her. "It's good of you to come so soon, ma'am. I hope you did not think it presumptuous but I did not know whom else to ask."

"Of course not. What happened?"

"Everything was fine. We have all been so careful but last night, we found Mrs Watson lying on the floor. She must have had a fainting spell or something. We called the doctor right away." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "He said it might not bode well for the baby if it is not delivered soon. He had to induce the pains. But now it is taking too long."

Margaret did not know much about childbirth. She had never been present at one. Edith had written to her about the pain but it had been a brief mention, the bulk of her description had been about her joy at holding Sholto for the first time. Margaret knew that childbirth was a long and painful process; all women went through it and most managed to delivery safely. Dr Donaldson was the best doctor in Milton. He had once attended her father and she had found that she liked his simple but kind and competent manner.

Fanny was beginning to stir. "George?"

"The master has been with Mrs Watson all this time," the housekeeper explained. "She sent him away just now."

"Fanny," Margaret stroked her forehead. "It's me, darling. Should I call Mr Watson?" she asked uncertainly, looking at the matron for guidance.

Fanny shook her head. "I asked him to go," she said weakly. "He was being a nuisance." She smiled, a weak but absurdly charming smile and heart-breaking under the circumstances; then her expression sobered. "He is so worried and I cannot bear it," she admitted tearfully.

"It's all right. Everything will be all right," Margaret fervently assured her.

Margaret saw that Fanny was conserving her strength, breathing deeply and trying to calm herself. She was worried for the baby but was trying to not to give into her panic. It was as if she believed that if she did not speak her fears, she could keep them from becoming real.

Margaret wished she had something encouraging to say to Fanny but she did not know very much. There was no older woman in their family to guide them and comfort them, she thought with dismay.

At first, Margaret drew courage from the matron's calm and competent manner but as hours passed, she saw the beginnings of concern on the woman's face. Margaret couldn't tell what it meant—should the pains be stronger now, should it be quicker now. The doctor came in again. He assured Fanny that the baby was not in "distress."

Eventually, the pains started to come more frequently. Intense and harrowing spells followed by brief intervals of relief and silence. Margaret held Fanny's hand, their palms soldered together by fear and pain. The matron urged Fanny to be strong for the baby. But it seemed to go on forever. Minutes became hours. Hours stretched into forever. Margaret could no longer tell what time it was.

After a long, racking wave of pain, the matron checked Fanny. "No much longer now," she said, sounding vastly relieved. "Call the doctor," she instructed the housekeeper, who immediately rushed out the door.

The next few hours were a blur. Margaret focused all her attention on Fanny, murmuring encouragements, talking to her to distract her from the pain, rubbing her back and shoulder. Fanny, mindlessly exhausted, did everything that was asked of her by the matron and the doctor.

Suddenly, a loud scream pierced the room. It took a moment for Margaret to recognise it as coming from the tiny wrinkled creature that the doctor was holding in his hands.

"It's a girl," the matron said triumphantly as she took the baby from the doctor.

"Oh, Fanny, did you hear that? It's a baby girl."

The matron wrapped the child in a soft towel and placed her in Fanny's arms.

And suddenly all the worry and the agony was gone, just vanished. Everything seemed worth the suffering. Margaret watched caught in the quiet, blessed wonder of the moment. A beautiful peace pervaded the room.

And then just as suddenly, it was gone.

The doctor was saying something to the matron, his voice urgent and sharp and then the baby was taken from Fanny to be cleaned and washed. Fanny didn't protest; she was shivering and sweating.

Without warning, everything started going wrong quickly. Fanny collapsed back on the bed as if someone had cut off the puppet strings. She was beginning to lose consciousness.

"Give her the ergot infusion," Margaret heard the doctor say.

Mrs Platt poured a cup from a large kettle that had been brought into the room earlier. The mug was pushed into Margaret's hand.

The housekeeper raised Fanny a little, careful not to move her too much. Margaret pressed the cup to Fanny's mouth. "Please have some of this."

Fanny weakly swallowed a little of the liquid.

"More," Margaret said inexorably, continuing to hold the mug to her lips. Together, they managed to make her drink the entire content of the cup. But it didn't seem to help. Fanny was sinking by the moment.

Margaret clamped her trembling lips as they watched the doctor's efforts.

"She is bleeding too much," the doctor muttered. "I need all of you to leave," he said. To the housekeeper, he began snapping out rapid instructions.

"I will stay—" Margaret began.

"Mrs Thornton, you will be of no use here. Please."

Mr Watson was waiting outside, barely able to contain his agitation, his eyes fierce with panic. John came up as well; someone must have told him about the birth.

For the next hour, Margaret watched as blood-soaked linens and covers were discreetly taken away from the birthing room and cans of hot water and endless supplies of fresh linen were sent in.

Mr Watson was pacing when the door to the room opened and Dr Donaldson came out. His shock of white hair was rumpled and he looked tired.

Mr Watson came forward. "How is she?"

"I've staunched the haemorrhage but she has lost a lot of blood," the doctor told him. "Her pulse is very weak."

"So what do you advice?"

Dr Donaldson shook his head sadly, his eyes mournful. "I'm sorry but there is nothing more I can do for her," he said.

There was a moment of bewildered silence in the room. Everyone was looking at the doctor, waiting for him to clarify, to make his words mean different. But the doctor stood with his shoulders hunched. "We can only pray that she pulls through."

Margaret covered her mouth with her hand. She looked at John. He stood stiff and straight, trying to absorb the shock.

It was Mr Watson who broke the ghastly silence. "Of course, she will pull through," he said, refusing to believe anything else. He pushed past the doctor and strode into the room to sit next to his wife.

Dr Donaldson shook his head with quiet resignation. He picked up his medical bag. "I'm very sorry but I must go."

"But Fanny—" Margaret stopped him. "What should we do?"

"Make her as comfortable as you can," he said, then added, "Do not move her, it could start the haemorrhage. The matron will be here to watch for any signs of fever."

"Will she be in pain? I mean . . . She will wake up, won't she?" she asked, needing some certainty.

"We must pray that she does." He sighed tiredly. "It has been a complicated labour and . . . there is much we don't yet understand. So much depends on the constitution, a thousand things. Nothing is certain in these cases. At the moment, we can only hope that the body heals itself."

"I'm very sorry," he said again. John hardly seemed to see the hand that the doctor held out.

With a final grim look, Dr Donaldson departed quietly, leaving them alone in shocked silence. For several minutes, they stood without moving, rooted to the spot with shock. This couldn't not be happening. Not Fanny. The sweetest, dearest person she knew.

John was in the opposite side of the room. His gaze was downcast, his features were stone.

"Ma'am?"

It was Mrs Platt. She had been standing at the door, looking just as shocked.

Margaret went to her. "Yes?"

"I'm so sorry to ask this at such a time," the housekeeper said, her voice low and apologetic, "but should I arrange for a wet nurse? The baby will be needing her when she wakes up. Mrs Watson wanted to nurse the baby herself but now . . ."

Margaret turned to look for John but he had left the room.

She swallowed and nodded.

"Where's the baby?" she asked.

"In the nursery. The matron is looking after her."

In the beautiful room that Fanny had prepared, Margaret found the baby swaddled and fast asleep.

"How is she?" she asked the matron.

"As healthy and bonny as you could hope for." The woman handed the sleeping child to Margaret. "She has just gone to sleep. She has had a hard time of it too, the wee thing. She'll have a good long sleep."

The baby was so tiny and light in her arms. Fanny had so wanted a baby. She would have loved a daughter but now she would never—

She cut off that thought. Fanny would pull through. She had to. It wasn't right, didn't _feel_ right.

"Take her to her mother," the matron suggested. "It may do her good if the child's with her."

Margaret took the baby to the birthing room.

The room was shockingly quiet and clean. The bed linens had been changed, the floor mopped, the curtains were drawn. Fanny was lying still, the bed cover pulled all the way up to her chest. Her normally luminous complexion was waxen, her lips bloodless and her eyes sunken.

Mr Watson was sitting on the side of the bed, holding Fanny's hand, chaffing it and trying to talk to her.

When he saw the child, he looked confused for a moment as if he had almost forgotten about it. He hadn't even seen his baby, Margaret realised with a start. In all the commotion and shock, nobody had remembered to show him his daughter.

Margaret went to him and placed the child in his arms.

Overcome, he didn't speak for a few moments. He held her tenderly and awkwardly as he peered into her tiny face.

"She is a beauty, isn't she?" Margaret remarked. "We don't yet know the colour of her eyes; we won't know for sure for a few weeks, but she has Fanny's hair."

Smiling, he touched the fine golden hair on the baby's head.

"Is she supposed to be sleeping?" he asked uncertainly.

"Yes," Margaret said. "The matron said she would be sleeping for some time."

He nodded distractedly, his attention utterly absorbed with his daughter. He held the new bundle of life close to him. After a few minutes, he gently and carefully settled the baby in the crook of Fanny's arm, tucking her snuggly next to her mother.

Margaret felt her eyes fill with tears. "I will be right outside," she said. She hated to leave, but she knew it was not her place to stay with Fanny at this moment. She slipped away from the room, leaving the family to its privacy.

She returned to the waiting room. After the chaos of the birth, everything was all very quiet. The household had gone silent, their footsteps soft, their voices hushed. A mournful silence had descended over the house.

Margaret stood motionless, staring blindly at a small corner table, thinking about Bessy and how everything had turned silent and still at the end—her pain, her breath, the very air around her—until she wrenched her mind away from the image. She desperately wished that there was something for her to do other than to wait. But there wasn't anything to be done. Except—John. Where was John? She remembered the devastation on his face. She went downstairs to find him.

He was in the study. A lamp was lit in the room, it was neither very bright nor dark. John was sitting on a bench by the right wall, arms folded, closed off. He looked as if he was preparing himself for the worst that fate would deal.

He turned his head towards her.

"Fanny is sleeping," she told him. "Mr Watson is with her. And the baby."

He lowered his eyes, his face silent and withdrawn. For a long time, he did not speak. Then he said, without looking, "You should get some rest. I will have someone bring the carriage—"

"No."

He didn't insist or say anything more.

Margaret stood at the threshold as she gazed at him across the empty room. He was aware of her silent attention on him, but he did not acknowledge it.

In the dim light, he looked very severe and austere. She was at a loss, watching his remote self-sufficiency. They had suddenly gone back to being strangers, unable to seek out or reach. She hated this silence between them, his exclusion of her from this as if she had no part in it, as if she could not possibly understand what he was going through.

She was daunted by his inaccessibility and her own emotional clumsiness around him as she searched for words to give him solace and strength. But there was nothing she could say to offer comfort or assurance. She could not begin to imagine his distress and grief, having to watch helplessly from a distance, unable to do anything, as his sister slipped away.

"John?" she whispered with no idea of what she was going to say.

He did not answer. She bit her bottom lip, feeling inexplicably, selfishly hurt. He clearly wanted to be left alone. He was not going to turn to her; she should go back upstairs.

But she did not move.

Instead, she found herself walking into the room. She stood before him. Up close, he did not look so daunting. He looked exhausted, shattered, the anxiety and weariness etched on his face, his very posture.

"Margaret." He said her name as a tired warning, intending to dissuade her.

"No," she cut him off.

She sat on the bench beside him. A minute crawled by. When he understood that she wasn't going to leave, he uncrossed his arms and leaned back to rest his tired shoulders and head against the wall and closed his eyes.

She thought about how easily and assuredly he had consoled her the day Bessy had passed away, almost with an air of possession, how she had found unexpected comfort in the way he had simply held her.

She saw his hand, half-curled and empty. She placed her hand on his, sliding her fingers into his palm and pressed them in a reassuring clasp. He did not move, but she sensed a motion beneath his stillness. A moment passed and then slowly, he closed his hand, capturing her fingers and holding her hand, accepting her presence.

The two of them sat like this for long silent minutes.

After a time, she went upstairs. She found the matron sitting on a chair in the outer room, nodding off. Margaret asked the housekeeper to prepare a small meal and send it to Mr Watson and John even though she knew neither men would touch it.

Then she sat down and prayed and prayed. She went in a few times in the night to check on Fanny for any sign of fever or bleeding. Each time she visited, she found Mr Watson sitting on a chair by the bed, holding his wife's hand. The baby continued to sleep peacefully. And Fanny lay terrifyingly still.

* * *

Margaret awoke, empty-headed. Her neck was stiff and her back ached. She had fallen asleep in the chair. Across from her, the matron was sound asleep. A moment later, panic rose inside her. Fanny—

She rushed to the room.

Mr Watson was sitting on the side of the bed, leaning down, speaking in a soft voice. He had kept talking to Fanny as he'd kept his vigil, hoping for a response, keeping alive the delusion that she had only closed her eyes.

Margaret couldn't see past his shoulders. She walked further into the room, tense with hope and dread, trying to get a glimpse of Fanny.

Fanny was lying exactly as she had been but her eyes were open and her lips were moving. Her words emerged in a faint whisper, barely audible but Margaret heard them.

"How's the baby?" she was asking.

Margaret's muscles went slack with relief. Tears well up in her eyes. She raised her hands and brought them to her mouth in fervent thanks. "Thank God! Thank you, God!"

Mr Watson noticed her presence; he lifted his head and looked at her and smiled.

"Oh, Fanny!" She came closer to the bed. "You gave us _such_ a scare."

Dashing tears from her eyes, Margaret hurried to the adjoining room to wake the matron. While the matron examined Fanny, Margaret went to find John, her heart beating fast with joy. She couldn't wait to give him the happy news and see the anguish on his face disappear.

He was still seated on the same bench. He was leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, his fingers threaded together. His head came up sharply when she rushed into the room and he immediately rose.

"She is awake!"

When he continued to stare uncomprehendingly at her, she added, "Fanny woke up, she is going to be fine."

She watched the news sink in, the tightly wound tension slowly unclench in him, the relaxing of muscles. Blinking a few times, he let out a deep breath and then looked down at his hands and nodded.

"Come, see her and the baby."

John followed her upstairs. Fanny and Mr Watson were seated exactly as she had left them. The matron was standing by the bed as she examined Fanny.

"The pulse is much stronger," the woman told them with a reassuring smile as she gently lay down Fanny's hand. "And no signs of fever."

John stood near the door, not venturing further into the room. He stood quietly as he took in Fanny's weakened state.

"How are you, Fan?" he asked.

Fanny looked at her brother and smiled at him tiredly.

Mr Watson handed his daughter to Margaret. She was swaddled in the softest of linen. She took the baby and brought her to John.

Unlike most large men, he wasn't awkward as he took the baby from her. He held the child securely in his hands, his strong fingers splayed out to support her fragile neck and body. Someone must have taught him how to hold a newborn, Margaret thought and then realised that he must have held Fanny like this.

John stared at the little bundle in his arms.

"Oh, have you _ever—_ " Margaret whispered ecstatically.

John smiled, agreeing. "She is beautiful, Fan."

The baby was so small but so perfect, from her little head covered with fine golden hair down to her unbelievably tiny fist, resting against her soft round cheek. A sleeping baby had to be the most innocently beautiful, the most soul-stirring sight.

"We are calling her Hannah," Fanny told him.

His head came up. He looked at Fanny in surprise. There was a moment of poignant silence; a wealth of understanding passed between the two of them. He gave a small nod and ducked his head to look at the baby but not before Margaret saw his eyes well up. They glistened like wet sapphire.

Her breath caught. Such a torrent of emotions surged up inside her, she could hardly contain it—sorrow for the tragedy of this family, joy for the gift of life but above all, such tenderness of him. She had to swallow away the lump in her throat.

Watching him as he lovingly held the baby and struggled to hide his emotions, she could not believe that she had been so foolishly blind. It was like turning a jewel in her hand and seeing a new facet. She could not believe that she had ever thought him cold and unfeeling. The man before her was vulnerable, someone who had known too much loss and pain.

Her heart ached to realise this. She wished she could take away the pain. She wished she could make him happy.

What a bold wish, she thought but in that moment, it was true.

"We should get the doctor," the matron was saying. "He would need to perform a full examination of the patient's condition."

"I will go for the doctor." John carefully handed the child back to Margaret.

Settling the baby back in her father's arms, Margaret hurried after John. She wanted to see him and speak with him before he went away and before the moment passed.

He hadn't left. He was standing in the hallway, his back to her. She quietly closed the door and went to him.

She put a hand on his arm. "John, are you all right?"

He turned to face her, his eyes were still a little misty. He was surprised that she was here and then not so surprised and all at once, he wrapped his arms around her and drew her hard against him in an anguished embrace.

She was momentarily stunned. He held her in a grip that was almost painful but she did not mind it. She knew what he was feeling, the strength of his emotions, the overwhelming, unspeakable relief. She could feel his emotions as keenly as if it were hers. She lifted her arms and held him.

John didn't say anything, didn't do anything except to hold her in a tight grip. This was what she wanted. To have him be open with her. To let her see who he was underneath. He had let down a wall and behind it, she was beginning to see the man and not just the master.

She felt the slow easing of the tension from his arms around her. He lifted his head and loosened his hold, slowing releasing her.

Neither of them spoke for a moment.

"Margaret," he said. "I'm sorry about last night. I was—"

"It's all right," she halted his apology. She smiled, forgiving him. She understood his pride as well as she understood her own. "I understand."

"I–" He stopped as if he wasn't sure what he had begun to say. "I will get the doctor."

"She is going to be fine."

He gave a nod, a small smile on his lips.

* * *

Dr Donaldson pronounced Fanny out of any immediate danger. But she was still incredibly weak from the blood loss and therefore susceptible to fever and corruption that might still develop.

He gave instructions about the food to give to Fanny. They must get her strength up, he said; so plenty of nutritious food and broths and lots of rest were recommended. She must not move too much, else it might reopen the wounds.

The doctor left them with some tonics to give to Fanny and told them that he would have some tablets compounded and sent over. He told them he would call again and see how his medicines worked.

It was around noon that Mr Watson could be convinced to get some sleep. He had had no rest, no sleep for almost two days. Margaret and matron stayed with Fanny while he went to get some much-needed rest. Fanny was asleep for most of the day; they would wake her up when it was time for meals and medicine.

Fanny was, not surprisingly, the easiest of patients to care for—she took the foul-tasting medicines without complaint and she ate dutifully. She did not talk a great deal; she was too tired for that but she insisted that the baby remain with her in the room. Seeing how being close to the child would only help her, the matron allowed it.

Margaret did not see John during the day though she knew he remained in the house. She guessed he was handling some important correspondences that simply couldn't be put off.

In the evening, a much refreshed Mr Watson took over from them. A new nurse was sent to attend to Fanny and relieve the matron. Everything seemed well under control.

"Margaret is drooping with fatigue," Mr Watson said to John and smiling at her in fond concern. "Take her home. You as well."

He turned to her and gave her a peck on the cheek and gently pushed her in John's direction. The men shook hands and gave each other a nod and then John handed her into a carriage.

Margaret felt limbless, exhausted beyond words. She rested her head against the seat. A part of her mind noted the dark prickly stubble on John's jaw. He was telling her something but for the life of her, she couldn't follow. Funny how a man's face changed in a day.

* * *

A slight weight against his shoulder alerted him.

Margaret had fallen asleep. He was hardly surprised. He brushed back the stray wisps that had tumbled loose from her dark hair and shifted slightly, adjusting his arm so that she could rest her head more comfortably. He kept her in a light clasp.

Settling back into the seat, he released his breath in a deep sigh. Despite the bone-deep exhaustion, he felt strangely alert as if something momentous was taking place.

Nestled against him and lulled by the rocking motion of the carriage, she slept through the ride home.

The carriage rolled to a stop at the mill house. From this close, he could see the delicate skin of her eyelids, the thick lashes tangled at the edges. She looked so peaceful. He hated to wake her. The trusting way she slept satisfied something deep inside him, filled his heart with tenderness and protectiveness.

"Sir, th' stop—" the coachman began, ready to pull the door open but John gestured for him to keep silent. The man glanced at Margaret and hastily retreated, "Beg pardon, sir."

He touched her cheek. "Margaret, love?"

She made no response. He called her again. She gave him a sleepy scowl, not wanting to be disturbed.

"We are home," he told her.

He saw her register that. She half-opened her eyes and slowly lifted her head from his shoulder. "Come, you can sleep as long as you want inside."

She lifted out of his arms and sat forward and looked out of the window, blinking at the light. A rumpled, sleepy scent clung to her. He opened the door and helped her out.

Grimsby must have seen the carriage. The door opened before they arrived at the front step. He greeted them with a "Welcome home!"

"Thank you, Grimsby." Her voice was husky from sleep.

He could see that she was trying not to come fully awake so that she could easily return to sleep. They went straight to the master suite. She opened the door to her room and they could hear her maid already in the dressing room beyond.

She was going inside when she turned around and looked at him doubtfully. "You will retire, won't you?"

"I will," he promised. As if he had the energy for his account books but he was again surprised and moved by her concern.

In his image of their marriage, he had always seen himself as taking care of her but he had never thought that she might take care of him or worry about him. That idea had never occurred to him. He didn't want her to do it but a part of him didn't want her to stop either.

Her refusal to leave him, her silent and determined presence had been the sweetest comfort he had known. He had allowed himself to be more vulnerable than he had ever allowed himself to be. But he had never been this bruised before—all the fears and anxieties, all the memories falling on top of him, one after another. He had turned to her and finally leaned on her.

"Good night, John." She smiled and for a moment, he was lost without a coherent thought in his head. He was still standing, now deep in thought after she had gone inside.

He was a cautious man. He had to be, always, in every regard. But he was not a fool.

He felt as if he had been walking on a tightrope for some time now and had somehow managed to not fall into the unknowable depth beneath him. But now . . . now he felt as if he was on thin air, weightless. That maybe he was falling—may have already fallen.

* * *

 **A/N** : I had hoped to get the chapter to you before Christmas but you know . . . life and plans and all that. Still, not too late I hope.

This was a strange chapter to write. Writing about childbirth from the point of view of an attendant felt so limiting. Margaret would have no emotional access to Fanny's anxieties and labor pain. I felt that she would mostly be helpless and confused and emotionally drained by the sheer time it takes.

I had to look into childbirth in the mid-Victorian era for this chapter. I can't imagine a more distressing and depressing way to spend your free time. The fever that the doctor is worried about is puerperal fever, which would start about 3 to 10 after the birth. The fever was caused by infection propagated by doctors and birth attendants who did not bother to wash their hands or sterilize their instruments. I spared Fanny that. Interestingly, ergot of rye was given to mothers immediately after the birth of the baby to prevent post-partum bleeding, so that helped Fanny.

So an emotionally exhausting chapter but 'major breakthroughs' for our couple! I felt so giddy as I finished writing it :-)

Let me know what you think.

Warm wishes!

Sophia


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